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THE HARVEST -MOON. 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



AND REMAINS OF 



/ 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 



WITH 



LIFE BY ROBERT SOITTHEY 



ILLUSTRATED BY BIRKET FOSTER. 








NEW YORK: 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., 

No. 13 Astor Place. 







1 


] 








4-o^S^ 





CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

MEMOIR OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE *i 

Poems inserted in the Memoir* 

On being confined to School one pleasant Morning in Spring, written 

at the Age of Thirteen 13 

Extract from an Address to Contemplation, written at Fourteen 15 

To the Rosemary 24 

To the Morning 25 

My own Character 32 

Ode on Disappointment 37 

Lines, written iu Wilford Churchyard, on Recovery from Sickness. . . 40 

LETTERS 57 

Poems inserted in the Letters. 

Elegy, occasioned by the Death of Mr. Gill, who was drowned in the 

River Trent 72 

' Yes, my stray Steps have wandered ' 1*5 

Hints, &c 205 

/ Prayer 206 

. Prayer 206 

TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

met, byG. L. C 209 

, by Arthur Owen, Esq • 209 

, by H. Welker 21 ° 

Lines, by the Rev. J. Plumptre 211 

Sonnet, by Capel Lofft, Esq 2U 

Lines, written in St. John's College 212 

Sonnet, by Capel Lofft 213 

Written in the Homer of Mr. Henry Kirke White 214 

To the Memory of Henry Kirke White, by a Lady 214 

(5) 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Stanzas, supposed to have been written at the Grave of Henry Kirke 

White, by a Lady 217 

Ode on the late Henry Kirke White, by J uvenis 218 

Verses occasioned by the Death of Henry Kirke White, by Josiah 

Conder ... 219 

Sonnet, on seeing another, written to Henry Kirke White, in Sep- 
tember, 1803, inserted in his ' Remains, by Robert Southey,' by 

Arthur Owen 221 

Sonnet, in Memory of Henry Kirke White, by J. G 221 

Reflections on Reading the Life of the late Henry Kirke White, by 

Wm. Holloway 222 

Lines suggested on Reading the Poem on Solitude, in the Second Vol- 
ume of Henry Kirke White's ' Remains,' by J. Conder 223 

•To the Memory of Henry Kirke White, by the Rev. Dr. Collyer 224 

Lines on the Death of Henry Kirke White, by T. Park 22 J 

To the Memory of Henry Kirke White, by a Lady 226 

Lines written on visiting the Rooms once inhabited by Henry Kirke 

White, in St. John's College, Cambridge, by Mrs. M. H. Hay. . . 228 

Reflection on the early Death of Henry Kirke White, by a Lady 228 

Extract from a Poem recently published 229 

Monody to the Memory of Henry Kirke White, by Joseph Blackett.. 230 
On visiting the Tomb of Henry Kirke White, by Mrs. M. H. Hay. ... 233 
Lines written on reading the Remains of Henry Kirke White of Not- 
tingham, late of St. John's College, Cambridge ; with an Ac- 
count of his Life, by Robert Southey, Esq., by Mrs. M. H. Hay.. 233 

POEMS WRITTEN BEFORE THE PUBLICATION OF CLIFTON 

GROVE. 

Childhood, Part I 235 

II 241 

Fragment of an Eccentric Drama 248 

To a Friend * , 254 

On Reading the Poems of Warton 255 

To the Muse 256 

Song, ' Softly, softly blow, ye breezes ' 257 

The Wandering Boy 259 

Fragment, ' The Western Gale ' 260 

Canzonet 262 

Commencement of a Poem on Despair •. . . 262 

To the Wind, a Fragment 264 

The Eve of Death . . 264 

Thanatos 266 

Athanatos 2G7 

On Music , 268 

Ode to the Harvest Moon 269 

The Shipwreck'd Solitary's Song . . . : 271 



CONTENTS. 



POEMS PUBLISHED UNDER THE TITLE OF CLIFTON 
GROVE, &c. 

PAGE. 

Original Preface to Clifton Grove ... 277 

TomyLyre 279 

Clifton Grove 281 

Gondoline, a Ballad 295 

Written on a Survey of the Heavens, in the Morning before Day- 
break 304 

Lines supposed to be spoken by a Lover at the Grave of his Mistress. 306 

My Study 308 

To an Early Primrose 310 

Sonnet 1. To the Trent 311 

2. * Give me a Cottage on some Cambrian Wild ' 312 

3. Supposed to have been addressed by a Female Lunatic to 

aLady 312 

4. In the Character of Dermody 313 

5. The Winter Traveller 313 

6. By Capel Loflt, Esq 314 

— 7. Recantatory in reply 315 

8. On hearing an <Eolian Harp 315 

9. ' What art thou, Mighty One ' 316 

* Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter Winds ' 316 

The Lullaby of a Female Convict to her Child 317 

POEMS WRITTEN DURING, OR SHORTLY AFTER, THE PUB- 
LICATION OF CLIFTON GROVE. 

Ode to H. Fuseli, Esq., R. A , 319 

to the Earl of Carlisle 323 

Description of a Summer's Eve 324 

To Contemplation 326 

To the Genius of Romance. Fragment 330 

The Savoyard's Return ; 331 

' Go to the raging Sea, and say, be still'..... 332 

Written in the Prospect of Death. 334 

Pastoral Song, « Come, Anna, come ' 335 

To Midnight , 336 

ToThought. Written at Midnight 337 

Genius 339 

Fragment of an Ode to the Moon 341 

Fragment, * Oh, thou most fatal of Pandora's train '..,.. 343 

Sonnet, To Capel LoSft, Esq 344 

To the Moon , 344 

Written at the Grave of a Friend .. 345 

— ; To Misfortune 345 

'As thus oppress'd with many a heavy Care' 346 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Sonnet To April 346 

' Ye unseen Spirits' 347 

To a Taper 341 

• Yes ! 'twill be over soon ' 348 

To Consumption 348 

' Thy judgments, Lord, are just ' 349 



POEMS OF A LATER DATE. 

To a Friend in Distress, Mho, when H. K. \V. reasoned with him 

calmly, asked, if he did not feel for him 350 

Christmas Day 351 

Nelsoni Mors .. 353 

Hymn, ' Awake sweet harp of Judah, wake ' 354 

Hymn for Family Worship 356 

The Star of Bethlehem 357 

Hymn, 'O Lord, my God, in Mercy turn' 328 

Melody, ' Yes, once more that dying Strain ' 358 

Song, by "Waller, with an additional Stanza 359 

<I am pleased, and yet I'm sad' 360 

Solitude 361 

' If far from me the Fates remove ' 362 

1 Fanny, upon thy Breast I may not lie ' 363 

Verses, « Thou base Reniner at another's joy ' 364 

Epigram on Robert Bloomfield 365 



FRAGMENTS. 

I. ' Saw'st thou that Light ?' 366 

II. • The pious man, in this bad "World ' 367 

III. ' Lo ! on the eastern Summit ' 367 

IV. ' There was a little Bird upon that Pile ' 367 

V, ' O pale art thou, my Lamp ' 368 

VI. * O give me Music ' • 368 

VIL ' Ah ! who can say, however fair his View ' 369 

VITL ■ And must thou go ? ' 369 

IX. ' "When T Bit musin<? on the chequer'd Pa«t ' 369 

X. ' When hi"h Romance, o'er every Wood and Stream ' 370 

XT. 'Fnsh'disthe Lvre' 371 

XTT. ' Once more, and vet once more » , 371 

Fragment. ' Loud rage the winds without ' 371 

Verses, « When Pride and Envy ' 372 

On Whit Moudav 373 

On the Death of T>ermody, the Poet 374 

Song, The Wonderful Juggler . . 376 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Sonnet, To my Mother 378 

« Sweet to the gay of heart ' 378 

' Quick o'er the wintry waste ' 379 

TIME - 380 

THE CHRISTIAD 398 

PROSE COMPOSITIONS. 

Remarks on the English Press 410 

Sternhold and Hopkins 412 

Remarks on the English Poets. Warton 416 

Cursory Remarks on Tragedy 419 

Melancholy Hours, No. 1 425 

II 428 

Ill 432 

IV 438 

V 442 

VI 448 

VII 453 

VIII 457 

IX 462 

X 471 

XI 473 

XII 477 

REFLECTIONS. 

I. On Prayer 483 

n 487 

HI 490 



LIFE 



OF 



HENRY KI.RKE WHITE. 



It fell to my lot to publish, with the assistance of 
my friend Mr. Cottle, the first collected ediuon of the 
works of Chatterton, in whose history I felt a more than 
ordinary interest, as being a native of the same city, 
familiar from my childhood with those great objects of 
art and nature by which he had been so deeply im- 
pressed, and devoted from my childhood with the same 
ardor to the same pursuits. It is now my fortune to lay 
before the world some account of. one whose early death 
is not less to be lamented as- a loss to English literature, 
and whose virtues were as admirable as his genius. In. 
the present instance, there is nothing to be recorded but 
what is honorable co himself, and to the age in which 
he lived ; little to be regretted, but that one so ripe for 
heaven should so soon have been removed from the 
world. 

Henry Kirke White, the second son of John and 

Mary White, was born in Nottingham, March 21st, 1785. 
His father is a butcher ; his mother, whose maiden name 
was Neville, is < f a respectable Staffordshire family. 

From the years of three till five, Henry learnt to read 
at the school of Mrs. Gfarrington ; whose name, unim- 
portant as it may appear, is mentioned, because she had 

<») 



12 LIFE OF 

the good sense to perceive his extraordinary capacity, and 
spoke of what it promised with confidence. She was an 
excellent woman, and he describes her with affection in 
his poem upon Childhood. At a very early age his 
love ox reading was decidedly manifested ; it was a pas- 
sion to which everything else gave way. "I could 
fancy," says his eldest sister, "I see him in his little 
chair, with a large book upon his knee, and my mother 
calling, 'Henry, my love, come to dinner; ' which was 
repeated so often without being regarded, that she was 
obliged to change the tone of her voice before she could 
rouse him." When he was about seven, he would creep 
unperceived into the kitchen, to teach the servant to 
read and write ; and he continued this for some time 
before it .7as discovered that he had been thus laudably 
employed. He wrote a tale of a Swiss emigrant, which 
was probably his first composition, and gave it to this 
servant, being ashamed to show it to his mother. The 
consciousness of genius is always at first accompanied 
with this diffidence ; it is a sacred, solitary feeling. No 
forward child, however extraordinary the promise of 
his childhood, ever produced anything truly great. 

When Henry was about six, he was placed under the 
Rev. John Blanchard, who kept, at that time, the best 
school in Nottingham. Here he learnt writing, arith- 
metic, and French. When he was about eleven, he one 
day wrote a separate theme for every boy in his class, 
which consisted of about twelve or fourteen. The 
master said he had never known them write so well 
upon any subject before, and could not refrain from ex- 
pressing his astonishment at the excellence of Henry's. 
It was considered as a great thing for him to be at so 
good a school, yet there were some circumstances which 
rendered it less advantageous to him than it might have 
been. Mrs. White had not yet overcome her husband's 
intention of breeding him u^ to his own business : and 
by an arrangement which tock up too much of his time, 
and would have crushed his spirit, if that "mounting 



-J. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 13 

spirit" could have been crushed, one whole day in the 
week, and his leisure hours on the others, were em- 
ployed in carrying the butcher's basket. Some differ- 
ence? at length arose between his father and Mr. Blan- 
chard, in consequence of which Henry was removed. 

One of the ushers, when he came to receive the money 
due for tuition, took the opportunity of informing Mrs. 
White what an incorrigible son she had, and that it 
was impossible to make the lad do anything. This in- 
formation made his friends very uneasy ; thoy were 
dispirited about bam ; and had they relied wholly upon 
this report, the stupidity or malice of this man would 
have blasted Henry's progress forever. He was, how- 
ever, placed under the care of a Mr. Shipley, who soon 
discovered that he was a boy of quick perception and 
very admirable talents, and came with joy, like a good 
man, to relieve the anxiety and painful suspicions of 
his family. 

While his schoolmasters were complaining that they 
could make nothing of him, he discovered what Nature 
had made him, and wrote satires upon them. These 
pieces were never shown to any except his most particu- 
lar friends, who say that they were pointed and severe. 
They are enumerated in the table of Contents to one of 
his manuscript volumes, under the title of School-Lam- 
poons ; but, as was to be expected, he had cut the leaves 
out and destroyed them. 

One of his poems written at this time, and under 
these feelings, is preserved. 

ON BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL ONE PLEAS- 
ANT MORNING IN SPRING. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. 

The morning sun's enchanting rays 
Now call forth every songster's praise ; 
Now the lark with upward flight, 
Gayly ushers in the light ; 



14 LIFE OF 

While wildly warbling from each tree, 
The birds sing songs to liberty. 

But for me no songster sings, 
For me no joyous lark up-springs ; 
For I, confin'd in gloomy school, 
Must own the pedant's iron rule, 
And far from sylvan shades and bowers, 
I*n durance vile must pass the hours ; 
There con the scholiast's dreary lines, 
Where no bright ray of genius shines, 
And close to rugged learning cling, 
While laughs around the jocund spring. 

How gladly would my soul forego 
All that arithmeticians know, 
Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach, 
Or all that industry can reach, 
To taste each morn of all the joys 
That with the laughing sun arise ; 
And unconstrain'd to rove along 
The bushy brakes and glens among ; 
And woo the muse's gentle power 
In unfrequented rural bower ! 
But ah! such heav'n-approaching joys 
Will never greet my longing eyes ; 
Still will they cheat in vision fine, 
Yet never but in fancy shine. 

Oh, that I were the little wren 
That shrilly chirps from yonder glen ! 
Oh, far away I then would rove, 
To some secluded bushy grove ; 
There hop and sing with careless glee, 
Hop and sing at liberty ; 
And till death should stop my lays, 
Far from men would spend my days. 

About this time his mother was induced, by the ad- 
vice of several friends, to open a ladies' boarding and 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 15 

day school in Nottingham, her eldest daughter having 
previously been a teacher in one for some time. In this 
she succeeded beyond her most sanguine expectations, 
and Henry's home comforts were thus materially in- 
creased, though it was still out of the power of his family 
to give him that education and direction in life which 
his talents deserved and required. 

It was now determined to breed him up to the hosiery 
trade, the staple manufacture of his native place, and 
at the age of fourteen he was placed in a stocking-loom, 
with the view, at some future period, of getting a situa- 
tion in a hosier's warehouse. During the time that he 
was thus employed, he might be said to be truly un- 
happy ; he went to his work with evident reluctance, 
and could not refrain from sometimes hinting his ex- 
treme aversion to it: but the circumstances of his 
family obliged them to turn a deaf ear.* His mother, 

* His temper and tone of mind at this period, when he was in his four- 
teenth year, are displayed in this extract from an Addkess to Contem- 
plation. 

Thee do I own, the prompter of my joys, 
The soother of my cares, inspiring peace ; 
And I will ne'er forsake thee. Men may rave, 
And blame and censure me, that I don't tie 
My ev'ry thought down to the desk, and spend 
The morning of my life in adding figures 
With accurate monotony ; that so 
The good things of the world may be my lot, 
And I might taste the blessedness of wealth : 
But, oh ! I was not made for money getting ; 
For me no much-respected plum awaits, 
Nor civic honor, envied— For as still 
I tried ta cast with school dexterity 
The Interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts 
Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt, 
Which fond remembrance cherish'd, and the pen 
Dropt from my senseless fingers as I pictur'd. 
In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent 
I erewhile wander'd with my early friends 
In social intercourse. And then I'd think 
How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide, 
One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe ; 
They were set down with sober steadiness, 



1 6 LIFE OF 

however, secretly felt that he was worthy of better 
things : to her he spoke more openly : he could not 
bear, he said, the thought of spending seven years of 
his life in shining and folding up stockings ; he wanted 
something to occupy his brain, and he should be 
wretched if he continued longer at this trade, or indeed 
in anything except one of the learned professions. 

Each to his occupation. I alone, 

A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries, 

Reinain'd unsettled, insecure, and veering 

With ev'ry wind to ev'ry point o' th' compass. 

Yes, in the Counting House I could indulge 

In fits of close abstraction ; yea, amid 

The busy bustling crowds could meditate, 

And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away 

Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend. 

Aye, Contemplation, ev'n in earliest youth 

I woo'd thy heav'nly influence ! 1 would walk 

A weary way when all my toils were done, 

To lay myself at night in some lone wood, 

And hear the sweet song of the nightingale. 

Oh, those were times of happiness, and still 

To memory doubly dear ; for growing years 

Had not then taught me man was made to mourn ; 

And a short hour of solitary pleasure, 

Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense 

For all the hateful bustles of the day. 

My op'ning mind was ductile then, and plastic, 

And soon the marks of care were worn away, 

While I was sway'd by every novel impulse, 

Yielding to all the fancies of the hour. 

But it has now assum'd its character ; 

Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone, 

Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend. 

Yet still, oh, Contemplation ! I do love 

To iudulge thy solemn musings : still the same 

With thee alone I know to melt and weep, 

In thee alone delighting. Why along 

The dusky track of commerce should I toil, 

When with an easy competence content, 

I can alone be happy ; where with thee 

I may enjoy the loveliness of nature, 

And loose the wings of Fancy !— Thus alone 

Can I partake of happiness on Earth ; 

And to be happy here is man's chief end, 

For to b;3 happy he must needs be good. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1 7 

These frequent complaints, after a year's application, 
or rather misapplication (as his brother says), at the 
loom, convinced her that he had a mind destined for 
nobler pursuits. To one so situated, and with nothing 
but his own talents and exertions to depend upon, the 
Law seemed to be the only practicable line. His affec- 
tionate and excellent mother made every possible effort 
to effect his wishes, his father being very averse to the 
plan, and at length, after overcoming a variety of ob- 
stacles, he was fixed in the office of Messrs. Coldham and 
Enfield, attorneys and town-clerks of Nottingham. As 
no premium could be given with him, he was engaged 
to serve two years before he was articled, so that though 
he entered this office when he was fifteen, he was not 
articled till the commencement of the year 1802. 

On thus entering the law, it was recommended to 
him by his employers, that he should endeavor to obtain 
some knowledge of Latin. He had now only the little 
time which an attorney's office, in very extensive prac- 
tice, afforded ; but great things may be done in " those 
hours of leisure which even the busiest may create," * 
and to his ardent mind no obstacles were too discourag- 
ing. He received some instruction in the first rudiments 
of this language from a person who then resided at Not- 
tingham under a feigned name, but was soon obliged 
to leave it, to elude the search of government, who 
were then seeking to secure him. Henry discovered him 
to be Mr. Cormick, from a print affixed to a continua- 
tion of Hume and Smollett, and published, with their 
histories, by Cooke. He is, I believe., the same person 
who wrote a life of Burke. If he received any other 
assistance, it was very trifling ; yet, in the course of ten 
months, he enabled himself to read Horace with toler- 
able facility, and had made some progress in Greek, 
which indeed he began first. He used to exercise him- 
self in declining the Greek nouns and verbs as he was 

* Turner's Preface to the History of the Anglo-Saxons. 

- — ■ 7! 



18 LIFE OF 

going to and from the office, so valuable was time be- 
come to him. From this time he contracted a habit of 
employing his mind in study during his walks, which 
he continued to the end of his life. 

He now became almost estranged from his family ; 
even at his meals he would be reading, and his evenings 
were entirely devoted to intellectual improvement. He 
had a little room given him, which was called his study, 
and here his milk supper was taken up to him ; for, to 
avoid any loss of time, he refused to sup with his family, 
though earnestly entreated so to do, as his mother 
already began to dread the effects of this severe and un- 
remitting application. The law was his first pursuit, 
to which his papers show he had applied himself with 
such industry, as to make it wonderful that he could 
have found time, busied as his days were, for anything 
else. Greek and Latin were the next objects : at the 
same time he made himself a tolerable Italian scholar, 
and acquired some knowledge both of the Spanish and 
Portuguese. His medical friends say that the knowl- 
edge he had obtained of chemistry was very respectable. 
Astronomy and electricity were among his studies : 
some attention he paid to drawing, in which it is prob- 
able he would have excelled. He was passionately fond 
of music, and could play very pleasingly by ear on the 
pianoforte, composing the bass to the air he was play- 
ing ; but this propensity he checked, lest it might in- 
terfere with more important objects. He had a turn 
for mechanics, and all the fittings up of his study were 
the work of his own hands. 

At a very early age, indeed soon after he was taken 
from school, Henry was ambitious of being admitted a 
member of a Literary Society then existing in Notting- 
ham, but was objected to on account of his youth : 
after repeated attempts, and repeated failures, he suc- 
ceeded in his wish, through the exertions of some of his 
friends, and was elected. In a very short time, to the 
great surprise of the Society, he proposed to give them 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 19 

a lecture, and they, probably from curiosity, acceded 
to the proposal. The next evening they assembled : he 
lectured upon Genius, and spoke extempore for above 
two hours, in such a manner, that he received the 
unanimous thanks of the Society, and they elected this 
young Roscius of oratory their Professor of Literature. 
There are certain courts at Nottingham, in which it is 
necessary for an attorney to plead : and he wished to 
qualify himself for an eloquent speaker, as well as a 
sound lawyer. 

With the profession in which he was placed, he was 
well pleased, and suffered no pursuit,' numerous as his 
pursuits were, to interfere in the slightest degree with 
its duties. Yet he soon began to have higher aspira- 
tions, and to cast a wistful eye toward the universities 
with little hope of ever attaining their important ad- 
vantages, yet probably not without some hope, however 
faint. There was at this time a magazine in publica- 
tion, called the Monthly Preceptor, which proposed 
prize themes for boys and girls to write upon ; and 
which was encouraged by many schoolmasters, some of 
whom, for their own credit, and that of the important 
institutions in which they were placed, should have 
known better than to encourage it. But in schools, and 
in all practical systems of education, emulation is made 
the mainspring, as if there were not enough of the 
leaven of disquietude in our natures, without inocula- 
ting it with this dilutement — this vaccine-virus of envy. 
True it is, that we need encouragement in youth ; that 
though our vices spring up and thrive in shade and 
darkness, like poisonous fungi, our better powers require 
light and air; and that praise is the sunshine, with- 
out which genius will wither, fade, and die ; or rather 
in search of which, like a plant that is debarred from 
it, will push forth in contortions and deformity. But 
such practices as that of writing for public prizes, 
of publicly declaiming, and of enacting plays before 
the neighboring gentry, teach boys to look for ap- 



20 LIFE OF 

plause instead of being satisfied with approbation, 
and foster in them that vanity which needs no such 
cherishing. This is administering stimulants to the 
heart, instead of " feeding it with food convenient for 
it ; " and the effect of such stimulants is to dwarf the 
human mind, as lapdogs are said to be stopped in their 
growth by being dosed with gin. Thus forced, it be- 
comes like the sapling which shoots up when it should 
be striking its roots far and deep, and which therefore 
never attains to more than a sapling's size. 

To Henry, however, the opportunity of distinguish- 
ing himself, even -in the Juvenile Library, was useful : 
if he had acted with a man's foresight, he could not 
have done more wisely than by aiming at every distinc- 
tion within his little sphere. At the age of fifteen, he 
gained a silver medal for a translation from Horace ; 
and the following year a pair of twelve inch globes, for 
an imaginary Tour from. London to Edinburgh. He 
determined upon trying for this prize one evening when 
at tea with his family, and at supper he read to them 
his performance, to which seven pages were granted in 
the magazine, though they had limited the allowance 
of room to three. Shortly afterwards he won several 
books for exercises on different subjects. Such honors 
were of great importance to him ; they were testimonies 
of his ability, which could not be suspected of partiality, 
and they prepared his father to regard with less reluc- 
tance that change in his views and wishes which after- 
wards took place. 

He now became a correspondent in the Monthly Mir- 
ror, a magazine which first set the example of typo- 
graphical neatness in periodical publications, which 
has given the world a good series of portraits, and which 
deserves praise also on other accounts, having among its 
contributors some persons of extensive erudition and ac- 
knowledged talents. Magazines are of great service to 
those who are learning to write ; they are fishing-boats, 
which the buccaneers of literature do not condescend 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 21 

to sink, burn, and destroy : young poets may safely try 
their strength in them ; and that they should try their 
strength before the public, without danger of any shame 
from failure, is highly desirable. Henry's rapid improve- 
ment was now as remarkable as his unwearied industry. 
The pieces which had been rewarded in the Juvenile 
Preceptor, might have been rivalled by many boys ; 
but what he produced a year afterwards, few men could 
equal. Those which appeared in the Monthly Mirror 
attracted some notice, and introduced him to the ac- 
quaintance of Mr. Capel Lofft, and of Mr. Hill, the pro- 
prietor of the work, a gentleman who is himself a lover 
of English literature, and who has probably the most 
copious collection of English poetry in existence. Their 
encouragement induced him, about the close of the 
year 1802, to prepare a little volume of poems for the 
press. It was his hope that this publication might, 
either by the success of its sale, or the notice which it 
might excite, enable him to prosecute his studies at col- 
lege, and fit himself for the Church. For though so far 
was he from feeling any dislike to his own profession, 
that he was even attached to it, and had indulged a 
hope that one day or other he should make his way to 
the bar, a deafness, to which he had always been sub- 
ject, and which appeared to grow progressively worse, 
threatened to preclude all possibility of advancement ; 
and his opinions, which had at one time inclined to 
deism, had now taken a strong devotional bias. 

Henry was earnestly advised to obtain, if possible, 
some patroness for his book, whose rank in life, and no- 
toriety in the literary world, might afford it some pro- 
tection. The days of dedications are happily well nigh 
at an end ; but this was of importance to him, as giving 
his little volume consequence in the eyes of his friends 
and townsmen. The Countess of Derby was first ap- 
plied to. and the manuscript submitted to her perusal. 
She returned it with a refusal, upon the ground that it 
was an invariable rule with her never to accept a com- 



2 2 LIFE OF 

pliinent of the kind ; but this refusal was couched in 
language as kind as it was complimentary, and he felt 
more pleasure at the kindness which it expressed, than 
disappointment at the failure of his application: a two 
pound note was inclosed as her subscription to the 
work. The Margravine of Anspach was also thought 
of. There is amongst his papers the draught of a letter 
addressed to her upon the subject, but I believe it was 
never seilt. He was then recommended to apply to 
the Duchess of Devonshire. Poor Henry felt a fit re- 
pugnance at courting patronage in this way, but he 
felt that it was of consequence in his little world, and 
submitted ; and the manuscript was left, with a letter, 
at Devonshire House, as it had been with the Countess 
of Derby. Some time elapsed, and no answer arrived 
from her Grace ; and as she was known to be pestered 
with such applications, apprehensions began to be en- 
tertained for the safety of the papers. His brother 
Neville (who was now settled in London) called several 
times ; of course he never obtained an interview the 
case at last became desperate, and he went with a de- 
termination not to quit the house till he had obtained 
them. After waiting four hours in the servants' hall, 
his perseverance conquered their idle insolence, and he 
got possession of the manuscript. And here he, as well 
as his brother, sick of " dancing attendance " upon the 
great, would have relinquished all thoughts of the ded- 
ication ; but they were urged to make one more trial : 
- a letter to her Grace was procured, with which Ne- 
ville obtained audience, wisely leaving the manuscript 
at home and the Duchess, with her usual good nature, 
gave permission that the volume should be dedicated 
to her. Accordingly her name appeared in the title 
page, and a copy was transmitted to her in due form, 
and in its due morocco livery, of which no notice was 
ever taken. Involved as she was in an endless round 
of miserable follies, it is probable that she never opened 
the book ; otherwise her heart was good enough to have 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 23 

felt a pleasure in encouraging the author. Oh, what a 
lesson would the history of that heart hold out ! 

Henry sent his little volume to each of the then ex- 
isting Reviews, and accompanied it with a letter, wherein 
he stated what his advantages had been, and what were 
the hopes which he proposed to himself from the pub- 
lication : requesting from them that indulgence of 
which his productions did not stand in need, and which 
it might have been thought, under such circumstances, 
would not have been withheld from works of less prom- 
ise. It may be well conceived with what anxiety he 
looked for their opinions, and with what feelings he 
read the following article in the Monthly Review for 
February, 1804 : 

" The circumstances under which this little volume 
is offered to the public, must, in some measure, disarm 
criticism. We have been informed, that Mr. White has 
scarcely attained his eighteenth year, has hitherto ex- 
erted himself in the pursuit of knowledge under the dis- 
couragements of penury and misfortune, and now hopes, 
by this early authorship, to obtain some assistance in 
the prosecution of his studies at Cambridge. He ap- 
pears, indeed, to be one of those young men of talents 
and application who merit encouragement ; and it 
would be gratifying to us, to hear that this publication 
had obtained for him a respectable patron, for we fear 
that the mere profit arising from the sale cannot be, in 
any measure, adequate to his exigencies as a student at 
the university. A subscription, with a statement of 
the particulars of the author's case, might have been 
calculated to have answered his purpose ; but, as a 
book which is to ' win its way ' on the sole ground of its 
own merit, this poem cannot be contemplated with any 
sanguine expectation. The author is very anxious, 
however, that critics should find in it something to com- 
mend, and he shall not be disappointed : we commend 
his exertions, and his laudable endeavors to excel ; but 



24 LIFE OF 



we cannot compliment him with having learned the 
difficult art of writing good poetry. 

" Such lines as these will sufficiently prove our as- 
sertion : 

" ' Here would I run, a visionary Boy, 

When the hoarse thunder shook the vaulted Sky ; 
And, fancy led, hehold the Almighty's form 
Sternly careering in the eddying storm." 

" If Mr. White should be instructed by Alma-mater, 
he will, doubtless, produce better sense and better 
rhymes." 

I know not who was the writer of this precious ar- 
ticle. It is certain that Henry could have no personal 
enemy ; his volume fell into the hands of some dull man, 
who took it up in an hour of ill-humor, turned over the 
leaves to look for faults, and finding that Boy and Sky 
were not orthodox rhymes, according to his wise creed 
of criticism, sate down to blast the hopes of a boy, who 
had confessed to him all his hopes and all his difficulties, 
and thrown himself upon his mercy. With such a letter 
before him (by mere accident I saw that which had 
been sent to the Critical Review), even though the poems 
had been bad, a good man would not have said so ; he 
would have avoided censure, if he had found it impos- 
sible to bestow praise. But that the reader may per- 
ceive the wicked injustice, as well as the cruelty of this 
reviewal, a few specimens of the volume, thus contempt- 
uously condemned because Boy and /Sky are used as 
rhymes in it, shall be inserted in this place. 

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.* 

I. 

Sweet scented flower ! who art wont to bloom 
On January's front severe, 
And o'er the wintery desert drear 
To waft thy waste perfume ! 

* The Rosemary buds in January. It is the flower commonly put in 
the coffins of the dead. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 25 

Ooine, thou shalt form my nosegay now, 
And I will bind thee round my brow ; 

And as I twine the mournful wreath, 
I'll weave a melancholy song, 
And sweet the strain shall be and long, 

The melody of death. 

II. 

Come, funeral flow'r ! who lov'st to dwell 

With the pale corse in lonely tomb, 

And throw across the desert gloom 
A sweet decaying smell. 
Come, press my lips, and lie with me 
Beneath the lowly Alder tree, 

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, 
And noi a care shall dare intrude, 
To break the marble solitude, 

So peaceful, and so deep,, 

ill. 
And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies, 
Moans hollow in the forest-trees, 
And sailing or the gusty breeze, 
Mysterious music dies. 
Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, 
It warns me to the lonely shrine, 
The cold turf altar of the dead ; 
My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 
Where as I lie, by all forgot, 
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. 



TO THE MORNING. 

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. 

Beams of the daybreak faint ! I hail 
Your dubious hues, as on the robe 
Of night, which wraps the slumbering globe, 
I mark your traces pale. 



26 LIFE OF 

Tir'd with the taper's sickly light, 
And with the wearying, numbered night, 
I hail the streaks ^f morn divine : 
And lo ! they break between the dewy wreathes 

That roun^ my rural casement twine ; 
The fresh gale o'er the giosn lawn breathes, 
It fans my feverish brow, — ir calms tne mental strife, 
And cheerily re-illumes the lambenr flame of life. 

The Lark has her gay song begun, 

She leaves her grassy nest, 
And soars till the unrisen sun 

Gleams on her speckled breast. 
Now let me leave my restless bed, 
And o'er th n spangled uplands tread ; 

Now through the custom' d Avood-walk wend ; 
By many a green lane lies my way, 

Where high o'er head the wild briers bend, 

Till on the mountain's summit gray 
I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. 

Oh, Heaven ! the soft refreshing gale 

It breathes into my breast, 
My sunk eye gleams, my cheek so pale, 

Is with new colors drest. 
Blithe Health . thou soul of life and ease ! 
Come thou too, on the balmy breeze, 

Invigorate my frame : 
I'll joLi with thee the buskin'd chase, 
With thee the distant clime will trace, 
Beyond those clouds of flame. 

Above, below, ™hat charms unfold 

In all the varied view ! 
Before me all is burnish' d gold, 

Behind the twilight's hue. 
The mists which on old Night await, 
Far to the West they hold their state, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 27 

They shun the clear blue face of Morn ; 
Along the fine cerulean sky, 
The fleecy clouds successive fly 
While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds 
adorn. 

And hark ! the Thatcher has begun 

His whistle on the eaves, 
And oft the Hedger's bill is heard, 

Among the rustling leaves. 
The slow team creaks upon the road, 

The noisy whips resounds, 
The driver's voice, his carol blithe, 
The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe, 

Mix with the morning's sounds. 

Who would not rather take his seat 

Beneath these clumps of trees, 
The early dawn of day to greet, 

And catch the healthy breeze, 
Than on the silken couch of Sloth 

Luxurious to lie ; 
Who would not from life's dreary wast^ 
Snatch, when he could, with eager haste, 

An interval of joy ! 

To him who simply thus recounts 

The morning's pleasures o'er, 
Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close, 

To ope on him no more. 
Yet, Morning ! unrepining still 

He'll greet thy beams awhile, 
And surely thou, when o'er his grave 
Solemn the whisp'ring willows wave, 

Wilt sweetly on him smile ; 
And the pale glow-worm's pensive light 
Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless 
night. 



28 LIFE OF 

An author is proof against reviewing, when, like 
myself, he has been reviewed above seventy times ; bat 
the opinion of a reviewer upon his first publication has 
more effect, both upon his feelings and his success, than 
it ought to have, or would have, if the mystery of the 
ungentle craft were more generally understood. Henry 
wrote to the editor, to complain of the cruelty with 
which he had been treated. This remonstrance pro- 
duced the following answer in the next month. 

Monthly Review, March, 1804. 
ADDRESS TO CORRESPONDENTS. 

" In the course of our long critical labors, we have 
necessarily been forced to encounter the resentment, or 
withstand the lamentations of many disappointed 
authors : but we have seldom, if ever, been more af- 
fected than by a letter from Mr. White, of Nottingham, 
complaining of the tendency of our strictures on his 
poem of Clifton Grove, in our last number. His expos- 
tulations are written with a warmth of feeling in which 
we truly sympathize, and which shall readily excuse, 
with us, some expressions of irritation : but Mr. White 
must receive our most serious declaration, that we did 
' judge of the book by the book itself ; ' excepting only, 
that from his former letter, we were desirous of mitiga- 
ting the pain of that decision which our public duty re- 
quired us to pronounce. We spoke with the utmost 
sincerity, when we stated our wishes for patronage to 
an unfriended man of talents, for talents Mr. White 
certainly possesses, and we repeat those wishes with 
equal cordiality. Let him still trust that, like Mr. Gif- 
fard, (see preface to his translation of Juvenal,) some 
Mr. Cookesley may yet appear, to foster a capacity 
which endeavors to escape from its present confined 
sphere of action ; and let the opulent inhabitants of 
Nottingham reflect, that some portion of that wealth 
which they have worthily acquired by the habits of in- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 29 

dustry, will be laudably applied in assisting the efforts 
of mind." 

Henry was not aware that reviewers are infallible. 
His letter seems to have been answered by a different 
writer ; the answer has none of the common-place and 
vulgar insolence of the criticism ; but to have made any 
concession, would have been admitting that a review 
can do wrong, and thus violating the fundamental prin- 
ciple of its constitution. 

The poems which had been thus condemned, ap- 
peared to me to discover strong marks of genius. I had 
shown them to two of my friends, than whom no per- 
sons living better understand what poetry is, nor have 
given better proofs of it; and their opinion coincided 
with my own. I was fully convinced of the injustice of 
this criticism, and having accidentally seen the letter 
which he had written to the reviewers, understood the 
whole cruelty of their injustice. In consequence of this 
I wrote to Henry, to encourage him; told him, that 
though I was well aware how imprudent it was in young 
poets to publish their productions, his circumstances 
seemed to render that expedient, from which it would 
otherwise be right to dissuade him ; advised him there- 
fore, if he had no better prospects, to print a larger vol- 
ume by subscription, and offered to do what little was 
in my power to serve him in the business. To this he 
replied in the following letter : 

s{t 4: 41 3{e- 41 % 4r^t 

" I dare not say all I feel respecting your opinion of 
my little volume. The extreme acrimony with which 
the Monthly Review (of all others the most important) 
treated me, threw me into a state of stupefaction ; I re- 
garded all that had passed as a dream, and thought I 
had been deluding myself into an idea of possessing 
poetic genius, when in fact I had only the longing, with- 
out the afflatus. I mustered resolution enough, how- 
ever, to write spiritedly to them : their answer, in the 
ensuing number, was a tacit acknowledgment that they 



SO LIFE OF 

had been somewhat too unsparing in their correction. 
It was a poor attempt to salve over a wound wantonly 
and most ungenerously inflicted. Still I was damped, 
because I knew the work was very respectable, and 
therefore could not, I concluded, give a criticism grossly 
deficient in equity — the more especially, as I knew of no 
sort of inducement to extraordinary severity. Your 
letter, however, has revived me, and I do again venture 
to hope that I may still produce something which will 
survive me. 

4 ' With regard to your advice and offers of assistance, 
I will not attempt, because I am unable, to thank you 
for them. To-morrow morning I depart for Cambridge, 
and I have considerable hopes that, as I do not enter 
into the University with any sinister or interested views, 
but sincerely desire to perform the duties of an affec- 
tionate and vigilant pastor, and become more useful to 
mankind, I therefore have hopes, I say, that I shall find 
means of support in the University. If I do not, I shall 
certainly act in pursuance of your recommendations \ 
and shall, without hesitation, avail myself of your 
offers of service, and of your directions. 

"Ina short time, this will be determined ; and when 
it is, I shall take the liberty of writing to you at Kes- 
wick, to make you acquainted with the result. 

" 1 have only one objection to publishing by sub- 
scription, and I confess it has weight with me — It is, 
that in this step, I shall seem to be acting upon the 
advice so unfeelingly and contumeliously given by the 
Monthly Reviewers, who say what is equal to this — that 
had I gotten a subscription for my poems before their 
merit was known, I might have succeeded ; provided, it 
seems, I had made a 'particular statement of my case ; 
like a beggar, who stands with his hat in one hand, and 
a full account of his cruel treatment on the coast of 
Barbary in the other, and so gives you his penny sheet 
for your sixpence, by way of half-purchase, half-charity. 

" I have materials for another volume, but. they were 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 31 

written principally while Clifton Grove was in the press, 
or soon after, and do not now at all satisfy me. Indeed, 
of late, I have been obliged to desist, almost entirely, 
from converse with the dames of Helicon. The drudgery 
of an attorney's office, and the necessity of preparing 
myself, in case I should succeed in getting to college, 
in what little leisure I could boast, left no room for the 
flights of the imagination." 

In another letter he speaks, in still stronger terms, of 
what he had suffered from the unfeeling and iniquitous 
criticism. 

"The unfavorable review (in the Monthly) of my 
unhappy work, has cut deeper than you could have 
thought ; not in a Jiterary point of view, but as it affects 
my respectability. It represents me actually as a beggar, 
going about gathering money to put myself at college, 
when my book is worthless ; and this with every ap- 
pearance of candor. Thay have been sadly misinformed 
respecting me : this review goes before me wherever I 
turn my steps ; it haunts me incessantly, and I am per- 
suaded it is an instrument in the hands of Satan to 
drive me to distraction. I must leave Nottingham." 

It is not unworthy of remark, that this very reviewal, 
which was designed to crush the hopes of Henry, and 
suppress his struggling genius, has been, in its conse- 
quences, the main occasion of bringing his Remains to 
light, and obtaining for him that fame which assuredly 
will be his portion. Had it not been for the indignation 
which I felt at perusing a criticism at once so cruel 
and so stupid, the little intercourse between Henry and 
myself would not have taken place ; his papers would 
probably have remained in oblivion, and his name, in 
a few years, have been forgotten. 

I have stated that his opinions were, at one time, in- 
clining towards deism : it need not be said on what 
slight grounds the opinions of a youth must needs be 
founded : while they are confined to matters of specula- 



32 LIFE OF 

tion, they indicate, whatever their eccentricities, only 
an active mind ; and it is only when a propensity is 
manifested to such principles as give a sanction to im- 
morality, that they show something wrong at heart. 
One little poem of Henry's remains, which was written 
in this unsettled state of mind. It exhibits much of 
his character, and can excite no feelings towards him, 
but such as are favorable. 

MY OWN CHARACTER. 

ADDRESSED (DURING ILLNESS) TO A LADY. 

Dear Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf, 

To give you a sketch — ay, a sketch of myself. 

'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess, 

And one it would puzzle a painter to dress ; 

But however, here goes, and as sure as a gun, 

I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun ; 

For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her, 

She wont be a cynical father confessor. 

Come, come, 'twill not do ! put that curling brow down ; 

You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown. 

Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction, 

That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction ; 

Religious — Deistic — now loyal and warm ; 

Then a dagger-drawn Democrat hot for reform ; 

This moment a fop — that, sententious as Titus ; 

Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus ; 

Now laughing and pleas'd, like a child with a rattle ; 

Then vexed to the soul with impertinent tattle ; 

Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay; 

To all points of the compass I veer in a day. 

I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child, 
But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild ; 
As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute; 
Then as for politeness — oh! dear — I'm a brute I 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 33 

I show no respect where I never can feel it ; 
And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it 
And so in the suite, by these laudable ends, 
I've a great many foes, and a very few friends. 

And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feel, 
That this proud heart of mine is not fashioned of steel. 
It can love, (can it not ?) — it can hate, I am sure ; 
And it's friendly enough, though in friends it be poor. 
For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds ; 
If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds ; 
And though far from faultless, or even so-so, 
I think it may pass as our wordly things go. 

Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss ; 

Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss! 

I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say, 

But in process of time I may get the wrong way. 

I'm a general lover, if that's condemnation, 

And yet can't withstand you know whose fascination. 

But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices, 

In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices ; 

So as for the good, why, if I possess it, 

I am not yet learned enough to express it. 

You yourself must examine the lovelier side, 
And after your every art you have tried, 
Whatever my faults, I may venture to say, 
Hypocrisy never will come in your way. 
I am upright, I hope ; I am downright, I'm clear! 
And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere : 
And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast, 
'Tis now when I swear ; * * 

About this time Mr. Pigott, the curate of St. Mary's, 
Nottingham, hearing what was the bent of his religious 
opinions, sent him, by a friend, Scott's " Force of 
Truth," and requested him to peruse it attentively, 
which he promised to do. Having looked at the book, 
3 



34 LIFE OF 

he told the person who brought it to him, that he could 
soon write an answer to it ; but about a fortnight 
afterwards, when this friend inquired how far he had 
proceeded in his answer to Mr. Scott, Henry's reply was 
in a very different tone and temper. He said, that to 
answer that book was out of his power, and out of any 
man's, for it was founded upon eternal truth ; that it 
had convinced him of his error ; and that so thoroughly 
was he impressed with a sense of the importance of his 
Maker's favor, that he would willingly give up all ac- 
quisitions of knowledge, and all hopes of fame, and 
live in a wilderness, unknown, till death, so he could 
insure an inheritance in heaven. 

A new pursuit was thus opened to him, and he en- 
gaged in it with his wonted ardor. " It was a constant 
feature in his mind," says Mr. Pigott, " to persevere in 
the pursuit of what he deemed noble and important. 
Religion, in which he now appeared to himself not yet 
to have taken a step, engaged all his anxiety, as of all 
concerns the most important. He could not rest satis- 
fied till he had formed his principles upon the basis of 
Christianity, and till he had begun in earnest to think 
and act agreeably to its pure and heavenly precepts. 
His mind loved to make distant excursions into the 
future and remote consequences of things. He no longer 
limited his views to the narrow confines of earthly ex- 
istence ; he was not happy till he had learnt to rest and 
expatiate in a world to come. What he said to me when 
we became intimate is worthy of observation : that, he 
said, which first made him dissatisfied with the creed he 
had adopted, and the standard of practice which he had 
set up for himself, was the purity of mind which he 
perceived was everywhere inculcated in the Holy Scrip- 
tures, and required of every one who would become a 
successful candidate for future blessedness. He had 
supposed that morality of conduct was all the purity re- 
quired ; but when he observed that purity of the very 
thoughts and intentions of the soul also was requisite, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 35 

he was convinced of his deficiencies, and could find no 
comfort to his penitence, but in the atonement made 
for human frailty by the Redeemer of mankind ; and 
no strength adequate to his weakness, and sufficient for 
resisting evil, but the aid of God's Spirit, promised to 
those who seek him from above in the sincerity of ear- 
nest prayer." 

From the moment when he had fully contracted 
these opinions, he was resolved upon devoting his life 
to the promulgation of them ; and therefore to leave 
the law, and, if possible, place himself at one of the 
Universities. Every argument was used by his friends 
to dissuade him from his purpose, but to no effect : his 
mind was unalterably fixed ; and great and numerous 
as the obstacles were, he was determined to surmount 
them all. He had now served the better half of the 
term for which he was articled ; his entrance and con- 
tinuance in the profession had been a great expense to 
his family : and to give up this lucrative profession, in 
the study of which he had advanced so far, and situ- 
ated as he was, for one wherein there was so little pros- 
pect of his obtaining even a decent competency, ap- 
peared to them the height of folly or of madness. This 
determination cost his poor mother many tears ; but 
determined he was, and that by the best and purest mo- 
tives. Without ambition he could not have existed, but 
his ambition now was to be eminently useful in the min- 
istry. 

It was Henry's fortune, through his short life, as he 
was worthy of the kindest treatmen always to find it. 
His employers, Mr. Coldham and Mr. Enfield, listened 
with a friendly ear to his plans, and agreed to give up 
the remainder of his time, though it was now become 
very valuable to them, as soon as they should think his 
prospects of getting through the University were such 
as he might reasonably trust to ; but till then, they felt 
themselves bound, for his own sake, to detain him. Mr. 
Pigott, and Mr. Dashwood, another clergyman, who at 



36 LIFE OF 

that time resided in Nottingham, exerted themselves in 
his favor : he had a friend at Queen's College, Cam- 
bridge, who mentioned him to one of the Fellows of 
St. John's, and that gentleman, on the representations 
made to him of Henry's talents and piety, spared no 
effort to obtain for him an adequate support. 

As soon as these hopes were laid out to him, his em- 
ployers gave him a month's leave of absence, for the ben- 
efit of uninterrupted study, and of change of air, which 
his health now began to require. Instead of going to 
the sea-coast, as was expected, he chose for his retreat 
the village of Wilford, which is situated on the banks 
of the Trent, and at the foot of Clifton Woods. These 
woods had ever been his favorite place of resort, and 
were the subject of the longest poem in his little volume, 
from which, indeed the volume was named. He de- 
lighted to point out to his more intimate friends the 
scenery of this poem ; the islet to which he had often 
forded when the river was not knee deep ; and the little 
hut wherein he had sate for hours, and sometimes all 
day long, reading or writing, or dreaming with his 
eyes wide open. He had sometimes wandered in these 
woods till night far advanced, and used to speak with 
pleasure of having once been overtaken there by a 
thunder storm at midnight, and watching the lightning 
over the river and the vale towards the town. 

In this village his mother procured lodgings for him, 
and his place of retreat was kept secret, except from his 
.nearest friends. Soon after the expiration of the month, 
intelligence arrived that the plans which had been 
formed in his behalf had entirely failed. He went im- 
mediately to his mother : " All my hopes," said he, ' ; of 
getting to the University are now blasted ; in preparing 
myself for it, I have lost time in my profession ; I have 
much ground to get up, and as I am determined not to 
be a mediocre attorney, I must endeavor, to recover 
what I have lost." The consequence was. that he ap- 
plied himself more severely than ever to his studies. He 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 37 

now allowed himself no time for relaxation, little for 
his meals, and scarcely any for sleep. He would read 
till one, two, three o'clock in the morning ; then throw 
himself on the bed, and rise again to his work at five, 
at the call of a larum, which he had fixed to a Dutch 
clock in his chamber. Many nights he never laid doAvn 
at all. It was in vain that his mother used every pos- 
sible means to dissuade him from this destructive appli- 
cation. In this respect, and in this only one, was 
Henry undutiful, and neither commands, nor tears, nor 
entreaties, could check his desperate and deadly ardor. 
At one time she went every night into his room, to put 
out his candle : as soon as he heard her coming up 
stairs, he used to hide it in a cupboard, throw himself 
into bed, and affect sleep while she was in the room ; 
then, when all was quiet, rise again, and peruse his 
baneful studies. 

" The night," says Henry, in one of his letters, "has 
been everything to me ; and did the world know how I 
have been indebted to the hoars of repose, they would 
not wonder that night images are, as they judge, so rid- 
iculously predominant in my verses." During some of 
these midnight hours he indulged himself in complain- 
ing, but in such complaints that it is to be wished more 
of them had been found among his papers. 



ODE ON DISAPPOINTMENT. 

I. 

Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Not in thy terrors clad ; 
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ; 
Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
The restless and the bad. 
But I recline 
Beneath thy shrine, 
And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine. 



38 LIFE OF 

II. 

Though Fancy flies away 
Before thy hollow tread, 
Yet Meditation in her cell, 
Hears with faint eye. the ling'ring knell, 
That tells her hopes are dead ; 
And though the tear 
By chance appear, 
Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here. ■ 

in. 

'Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, 
Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, 
For thou severe wert sent from heaven 
To wean me from the world ; 
To turn my eye 
From vanity, 
And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 

IV. 

What is this passing scene ? 

A peevish April day ! 
A little sun — a little rain, 
And then night sweeps along the plain, 
And all things fade away. 
Man (soon discuss'd) 
Yields up his trust, 
And all his hopes and fears lie with hirn in the dust. 

v. 

Oh, what is beauty's power ? 

It flourishes and dies ; 
Will the cold earth its silence break, 
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek 
Beneath its surface lies ? 
Mute, mute is all 
O'er beauty's fall ; 
Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 39 

VI. 

The most belov'd on earth 

Not long survives to-day ; 
So music past is obsolete, 
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, 
But now 'tis gone away. 
Thus does the shade 
In memory fade, 
When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. 

VII. 

Then since this world is vain, 

And volatile and fleet, 
Why should I lay up earthly joys, 
Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, 
And cares and sorrows eat ? 
Why fly from ill 
With anxious skill, 
When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart 
be still ? 

VIII. 

Come, Disappointment, come! 

Thou art not stern to me ; 
Sad Monitress ! I own thy sway, 
A notary sad in early day, 
I bend my knee to thee. 
From sun to sun 
My race will run, 
I only bow, and say, My Grod, thy will be done. 

On another paper are a few lines, written probably 
in the freshness of his disappointment. 

I dream no more — the vision flies away, 
And Disappointment * * * 
There fell my hopes — I lost my all in this, 
My cherish' d all of visionary bliss. 



4-U £Jf£L UP 

Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below ; 
Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe. 
Plunge me in glooms * * * 

His health soon sunk under these habits ; he became 
pale and thin, and at length had a sharp fit of sickness. 
On his recovery, he wrote the following lines in the 
churchyard of his favorite village. 

LINES ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. 

WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCH-YARD. 

Here would I wish to sleep. — This is the spot 
Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in; 
Tired out and wearied with the riotous world, 
Beneath this view I would be sepulchred. 
It is a lovely spot ! the sultry sun, 
From his meridian height, endeavors vainly 
To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr 
Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent, 
And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook 
Most pleasant. — Such a one perchance did Gray 
Frequent, as with the vagrant muse he wanton'd. 
Come, I will sit me down and meditate, 
For I am wearied with my summer's walk ; 
And here I may repose in silent ease ; 
And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er, 
My harrass'd soul, in this same spot, may find. 
The haven of its rest — beneath this sod. 
Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death. 

I would not have my corpse cemented down 

With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earthworm 

Of its predestined dues ; no, I would lie 

Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown, 

Swath'd down with oziers, just as sleep the cotters. 

Yet may not undistinguished be my grave ; 

But there at eve may some congenial soul 

Duly resort, and shed a pious tear, 



-- 



— JfENR V AV/HA'E WFTFTE. SfT 

The good man's benison — no more I ask. 

And oh ! (if heavenly beings may look down 

From where, with cherubim inspired, they sit, 

Upon this little dim-discover'd spot, 

The earth,) then will I cast a glance betow 

On him who thus my ashes shall embalm ; 

And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer, 

Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine 

In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe, 

But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies. 

Yet 'twas a silly thought — as if the body, 
Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth, 
Could taste the sweets of summer scenery, 
And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze ! 
Yet nature speaks within the human bosom, 
And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond 
His narrow verge of being, and provide 
A decent residence for its clayey shell, 
Endear' d to it by time. And who would lay 
His body in the city burial-place, 
To be thrown up again by some rude sexton, 
And yield its narrow house another tenant, 
Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust, 
Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp, 
Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness ? 
No, I will lay me in the village ground ; 
There are the dead respected. The poor hind, 
Unlettered as he is, would scorn to invade 
The silent resting-place of death. I've seen 
The laborer, returning from his toil, 
Here stay his step, and call his children round, 
And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes, 
And, in his rustic manner, moralize. 
I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken, 
With head uncover' d, his respectful manner, 
And all the honors which he paid the grave, 
And thought on cities, where even cemeteries, 



42 LIFE OF 

Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality, 

Are not protected from the drunken insolence 

Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc. 

Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close ! 

Yet. if this be denied, where'er my bones 

May lie — or in the city's crowded bounds, 

Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters, 

Or left a prey on some deserted shore 

To the rapacious cormorant, — yet still, 

(For why should sober reason cast away 

A thought which soothes the soul?) — yet still my spirit 

Shall wing its way to these my native regions, 

And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think 

Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew 

In solemn rumination ; and will smile 

With joy that I have got my long'd release. 

His friends are of opinion that he never thoroughly 
recovered from the shock which his constitution had 
sustained. Many of his poems indicate that he thought 
himself in danger of consumption ; he was not aware 
that he was generating or fostering in himself another 
disease, little less dreadful, and which threatens intellect 
as well as life. At this time youth was in his favor, and 
his hopes, which were now again renewed, produced 
perhaps a better effect than medicine. Mr. Dash wood 
obtained for him an introduction to Mr. Simeon, of 
King's College, and with this he was induced to go to 
Cambridge. Mr. Simeon, from the recommendation 
which he received, and from the conversation he had 
with him, promised to procure for him a Sizarship at 
St. John's, and, with the additional aid of a friend, to 
supply him with £30 annually. His brother Neville 
promised twenty ; and his mother, it was hoped, would 
be able to allow fifteen or twenty more. With this, it 
was thought, he could go through college. If this pros- 
pect had not been opened to him, he would probably 
have turned his thoughts towards the orthodox dis- 
senters. 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 43 

On his return to Nottingham, the Rev. Robin- 



son, of Leicester, and some other friends, advised him to 
apply to the Elland Society for assistance, conceiving 
that it would be less oppressive to his feelings to be de- 
pendent on a Society instituted for the express purpose 
of training up such young men as himself (that is, such 
in circumstances and opinions) for the ministry, than 
on the bounty of an individual. In consequence of this 
advice, he went to Elland at the next meeting of the 
Society, a stranger there, and without one friend among 
the members. He was examined, for several hours, by 
about five-and-twenty clergymen, as to his religious 
views and sentiments, his theological knowledge, and 
his classical attainments. In the course of the inquiry, 
it appeared that he had published a volume of poems: 
their questions now began to be very unpleasantly in- 
quisitive concerning the nature of these poems, and he 
was assailed by queries from all quarters. It was well 
for Henry that they did not think of referring to the 
Monthly Review for authority. My letter to him hap- 
pened to be in his pocket; he luckily recollected this, 
and produced it as a testimony in his favor. They did 
me the honor to say that it was quite sufficient, and 
pursued this part of their inquiry no farther. Before he 
left Elland, he was given to understand that they were 
well satisfied with his theological knowledge ; that they 
thought his classical proficiency prodigious for his age, 
and that they had placed him on their books. He re- 
turned little pleased with his journey. His friends had 
been mistaken ; the bounty of an individual calls forth 
a sense of kindness, as well as of dependence : that of a 
Society has the virtue of charity perhaps, but it wants 
the grace. He now wrote to Mr. Simeon, stating what 
he had done, and that the beneficence of his unknown 
friends was no longer necessary : but that gentleman 
obliged him to decline the assistance of the Society, 
which he very willingly did. 

This being finally arranged, he quitted his employers 



"44" LIFE OF 

in October, 1S04. How much he had conducted himself 
to their satisfaction, will appear by this testimony of 
Mr. Enfield, to his diligence and uniform worth. "I 
have great pleasure," says this gentleman, " in paying 
the tribute to his memory, of expressing the knowledge 
which was afforded me, during the period of his connec- 
tion with Mr. Coldham and myself, of his diligent ap- 
plication, his ardor for study, and his virtuous and 
amiable disposition. He very soon discovered an un- 
usual aptness in comprehending the routine of business, 
and great ability and rapidity in the execution of every- 
thing which was entrusted to him. His diligence and 
punctual attention were unremitted, and his services 
became extremely valuable a considerable time before 
he left us. He seemed to me to have no relish for the 
ordinary pleasures and dissipations of young men ; his 
mind was perpetually employed, either in the business 
of his profession, or in private study. With his fond- 
ness for literature, we were well acquainted, but had 
no reason to offer any check to it, for he never permitted 
the indulgence of his literary pursuits to interfere with 
the engagements of business. The difficulty of hearing, 
under which he labored, was distressing to him in the 
practice of his profession, and was, I think, an induce- 
ment, in co-operation with his other inclinations, for 
his resolving to relinquish the law. I can, with truth, 
assert, that his determination was matter of serious re- 
gret to my partner and myself." 

Mr. Simeon had advised him to degrade for a year, 
and place himself, during that time, under some scholar. 

He went accordingly to the Rev. Grainger, of Win- 

teringham, in Lincolnshire, and there, notwithstanding 
all the entreaties of his friends, pursuing the same un- 
relenting course of study, a second illness was the conse- 
quence. When he was recovering, he was prevailed 
upon to relax, to ride on horseback, and to drink wine ; 
these latter remedies he could not long afford, and he 
would not allow himself time for relaxation when he 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 45 

did not feel its immediate necessity. He frequently, at 
this time, studied fourteen hours a day : the progress 
which he made in twelve months was indeed astonish- 
ing : when he went to Cambridge, he was immediately 
as much distinguished for his classical knowledge as his 
genius : but the seeds of death were in him, and the 
place to which he had so long looked on with hope, 
served unhappily as a hot-house to ripen them.* 

During his first term, one of the University Scholar- 
ships became vacant, and Henry, young as he was in 
College, and almost self-taught, was advised, by those 
who were best able to estimate his chance of success, to. 
offer himself as a competitor for it. He past the whole 
term in preparing himself for this, reading for College 
subjects in bed, in his walks, or, as he says, where, when, 
and how he could, never having a moment to spare, 
and often going to his tutor without having read at all. 
His strength sunk under this, and though he had de- 
clared himself a candidate, he was compelled to decline ; 
but this was not the only misfortune. The general Col- 
lege examination came on ; he was utterly unprepared 
to meet it, and believed that a failure here would have 
ruined his prospects forever. He had only about a fort- 
night to read what other men had been the whole term 
reading. Once more he exerted himself beyond what 
his shattered health could bear; the disorder returned, 
and he went to his tutor Mr. Catton, with tears in his 
eyes, and told him that he could not go into the Hall to 
be examined. Mr. Catton, however, thought his success 

* During his residence in my family, says Mr. Grainger, his conduct 
was highly becoming, and suitable to- a Christian profession. He was 
mild and inoffensive, modest, unassuming, and affectionate. He attended, 
with great cheerfulness, a Sunday-school which I was endeavoring to es- 
tablish in the village, and was at considerable pains in the instruction of 
the children ; and I have repeatedly observed, that he was most pleased 
and most edified with such of my sermons and addresses to my people 
as were most close, plain, and familiar. When we parted, we parted 
with mutual regret ; and by us his name will long be remembered with 
affection and delight. 



46 LIFE OF 

here of so much importance, that he exhorted him, with 
all possible earnestness, to hold out the six days of the" 
examination. Strong medicines were given him, to en- 
able him to support it, and he was pronounced the 
first man of his year. But life was the price which he 
w r as to pay for such honors as this, and Henry is not the 
first young man to whom such honors have proved fatal. 
He said to his most intimate friend, almost the last time 
he saw him, that were he to paint a picture of Fame, 
crowning a distinguished under-graduate, after the 
Senate-house examination, he would represent her as 
concealing a Death's head under a mask of beauty. 

When this was over he went to London. London 
was a new scene of excitement, and what his mind re- 
quired was tranquillity and rest. Before he left College, 
he had become anxious concerning his expenses, fearing 
that they had exceeded his means. Mr. Catton per- 
ceived this, and twice called him to his rooms, to assure 
him of every necessary support, and every encourage- 
ment, and to give him every hope. This kindness re- 
lieved his spirits of a heavy weight, and on his return 
he relaxed a little from his studies, but it was only a 
little. I found among his papers the day thus planned 
out : — " Rise at half-past five. Devotions and walk till 
seven. Chapel and breakfast till eight. Study and 
lectures till one. Four and a half clear reading. Walk 
&c, and dinner, and Woollaston, and chapel to six. 
Six to nine, reading — three hours. Nine to ten, devo- 
tions. Bed at ten." 

Among his latest writings are these resolutions : — 

" I will never be in bed after six. 

I will not drink tea out above once a week, excepting 
on Sundays, unless there appear some good reason 
for so doing. 

I will never pass a day without reading some portion of 
the Scriptures. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 47 

I will labor diligently in my mathematical studies, be- 
cause I half suspect myself of a dislike to them. 

I will walk two hours a day, upon the average of every 
week. 

Sit mihi gratia addita ad hcec facienda. ,i 



About this time, judging by the handwriting, he 
wrote down the following admonitory sentences, which, 
as the paper on which they are written is folded into the 
shape of a very small book, it is probable he carried 
about with him as a manual. 

" 1. Death and judgment are near at hand. 

2. Though thy bodily part be now in health and 
ease, the dews of death will soon sit upon thy forehead. 

3. That which seems so sweet and desirable to thee 
now, will, if yielded to, become bitterness of soul to thee 
all thy life after. 

4. When the waters are come over thy soul, and 
when, in the midst of much bodily anguish, thou dis- 
tinguishest the dim shores of Eternity before thee, what 
wouldst thou not give to be lighter by this one sin ? 

5. Gfod has long withheld his arm ; what if his for- 
bearance be now at an end ? Canst thou not contem- 
plate these things with the eyes of death ? Art thou not 
a dying man, dying every day, every hour ? 

6. Is it not a fearful thing to shrink from the sum- 
mons when it comes ? — to turn with horror and despair 
from the future being ? Think what strains of joy and 
tranquillity fall on the ear of the saint who is just swoon- 
ing into the arms of his Redeemer ; what fearful shapes, 
and dreadful images of a disturbed conscience, surround 
the sinner's bed, when the last twig which he grasped 
fails him, and the gulf yawns to receive him. 

7. Oh, my soul, if thou art yet ignorant of the enor- 



48 LIFE OF 

mity of sin, turn thine eyes to the man who is bleeding 
to death on the cross! See how the blood from his 
pierced hands trickles down his arms, and the more co- 
pious streams from his feet run on the accursed tree, 
and stain the grass with purple ! Behold his features, 
though scarcely animated with a few remaining sparks 
of life, yet how full of love, pity, and tranquillity ! A 
tear is trickling down his cheek, and his lip quivers. 
He is praying for his murderers ! O, my soul I it is thy 
Redeemer — it is thy God ! And this too for Sin — for 
Sin ! and wilt thou ever again submit to its yoke ? 

8. Remember that the grace of the Holy Spirit of 
God is ready to save thee from transgression. It is 
always at hand : thou canst not sin without wilfully 
rejecting its aid. 

9. And is there real pleasure in sin ? Thou know- 
est there is not. But there is pleasure, pure and exqui- 
site pleasure, in holiness. The Holy Ghost can make 
the paths of religion and virtue, hard as they seem, and 
thorny, ways of pleasantness and peace, where, though 
there be thorns, yet are there also roses ; and where all 
the wounds which we suffer in the flesh, from the hard- 
ness of the journey, are so healed by the balm of the 
spirit, that they rather give joy than pain." 



The exercise which Henry took was no relaxation ; 
he still continued the habit of studying while he walked; 
and in this manner, while he was at Cambridge, com- 
mitted to memory a whole tragedy of Euripides. Twice 
he distinguished himself in the following year, being 
again pronounced first at the great College examina- 
tion, and also one of the three best theme writers, be- 
tween whom the examiners could not decide. The Col- 
lege offered him, at their expense, a private tutor in 
mathematics, during the long vacation ; and Mr. Cattcn, 
by procuring for him exhibitions to the amount of £6G 
per annum, enabled him to give up the pecuniary as- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 49 

sistance which he had received from Mr. Simeon and 
other friends. This intention he had expressed in a let- 
ter, written twelve months before his death. " With 
regard to my college expenses, (he says,) I have the 
pleasure to inform you, that I shall be obliged, in strict 
rectitude, to waive the offers of many of my friends. I 
shall not even need the sum Mr. Simeon mentioned, 
after the first year ; and it is not impossible that I may 
be able to live without any assistance at all. I confess 
I feel pleasure at the thought of this, not through any 
vain pride of independence, but because I shall then 
give a more unbiassed testimony to the truth, than if I 
were supposed to be bound to it by any ties of obliga- 
tion or gratitude. I shall always feel as much indebted 
for intended as for actually afforded assistance ; and 
though I should never think a sense of thankfulness an 
oppressive burthen, yet I shall be happy to evince it, 
when in the eyes of the world the obligation to it has 
been discharged." Never, perhaps, had any young 
man, in so short a time, excited such expectations ; every 
University honor was thought to be within his reach ; 
he was set down as a medallist, and expected to take a 
senior wrangler's degree ; but these expectations were 
poison to him ; they goaded him to fresh exertions when 
his strength was spent. His situation became truly 
miserable : to -his brother, and to his mother, he wrote 
always that he had relaxed in his studies, and that he 
was better ; always holding out to them his hopes, and 
his good fortune : but to the most intimate of his friends, 
(Mr. Maddock), his letters told a different tale : to him 
he complained of dreadful palpitations — of nights of 
sleeplessness and horror, and of spirits depressed to the 
very depth of wretchedness, so that he went from one 
acquaintance to another, imploring society, even as a 
starving beggar intreats for food. During the course cf 
this summer, it was expected that the Mastership of the 
Free-School at Nottingham would shortly become va- 
cant. A relation of his family was at that time mayor 

4 



50 LIFE OF 

of the town ; he suggested to them what an advantage- 
ous situation it would be for Henry, and offered to se- 
cure for him the necessary interest. But, though the 
salary and emoluments are estimated at from £400 to £600 
per annum, Henry declined the offer; because, had he 
accepted it, it would have frustrated his intentions with 
respect to the ministry. This was certainly no common 
act of forbearance in one so situated as to fortune, es- 
pecially as the hope which he had most at heart was 
that of being enabled to assist his family, and in some 
degree requite the care and anxiety of his f ither and 
mother, by making them comfortable in their declining 
years. 

The indulgence shown him by his college, in provid- 
ing him a tutor during the long vacation, was peculiarly 
unfortunate. His onlv chance of life was from relaxa- 
tion, and home was the only place where he would have 
relaxed to any purpose. Before this time he had seemed 
to be gaining strength ; it failed as the year advanced : 
he went once more to London, to recruit himself, — the 
worst place to which he could have gone ; the vari- 
ety of stimulating objects there hurried and agitated 
him, and when he returned to College, he was so com- 
pletely ill, that no power of medicine could save him. 
His mind was worn out, and it was the opinion of his 
medical attendants, that if he had recovered, his intel- 
lect would have been affected. His brother Neville was 
just at this time to have visited him. On his first seiz- 
ure, Henry found himself too ill to receive him, and wrote 
to say so ; he added, with that anxious tenderness tow- 
ards the feelings of a most affectionate family which 
always appeared in his letters, that he thought himself 
recovering ; but his disorder increased so rapidly, that 
this letter was never sent ; it was found in his pocket 
after his decease. One of his friends wrote to acquaint 
Neville with his danger : he hastened down ; but Henry 
was delirous when he arrived. He knew him only for a 
few moments ; the next day sunk into a state of stupor ; 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 51 

and on Sunday, October 19th, 1806, it pleased God to 
remove him to a better world, and a higher state of ex- 
istence. 

* •■% # * * # 

The will which I had manifested to serve Henry, he 
had accepted as the deed, and had expressed himself 
upon the subject in terms which it would have humbled 
me to read at any other time than when I was per- 
forming the last service to his memory. On his decease, 
Mr. B. Maddock addressed a letter to me, informing me 
of the event, as one who had professed an interest in 
his friend's fortunes. I inquired, in my reply, if there 
was any intention of publishing what he might have 
left, and if I could be of any assistance in the publica- 
tion; this led to a correspondence with his excellent 
brother, and the whole of his papers were consigned 
into my hands, with as many of his letters as could be 
collected. 

These papers (exclusive of the correspondence) filled 
a box of considerable size. Mr. Coleridge was present 
when I opened them, and was, as well as myself, equally 
affected and astonished at the proofs of industry which 
they displayed. Some of them had been written before 
his hand was formed, probably before he was thirteen. 
There were papers upon law, upon electricity, upon 
chemistry, upon the Latin and Greek languages, from 
their rudiments to the higher branches of critical study, 
upon history, chronology, divinity, the fathers, &c. 
Nothing seemed to have escaped him. His poems were 
numerous : among the earliest, was a sonnet addressed 
to myself, long before the little intercourse which had 
subsisted between us had taken place. Little did he 
think, when it was written, on what occasion it would 
fall into my hands. He had begun three tragedies when 
very young: one was upon Boadicea, another upon 
Inez de Castro : the third was a fictitious subject. He 
had planned also a History of Nottingham. There was 
a letter upon the famous Nottingham election, which 




52 LIFE OF 

seemed to have been intended either for the newspapers, 
or for a separate pamphlet. It was written to confute 
the absurd stories of the Tree of Liberty, and the God- 
dess of Reason ; with the most minute knowledge of the 
circumstances, and a not improper feeling of indigna- 
tion against so infamous a calumny ; and this came 
with more weight from him, as his party inclinations 
seemed to have leaned towards the side which he was 
opposing. This was his only finished composition in 
prose. Much of his time, latterly, had been devoted to 
the study of Greek prosody : he had begun several 
poems in Greek, and a translation of the Samson Ago- 
nistes. I have inspected all the existing manuscripts of 
Chatterton, and they excited less wonder than these. 

Had my knowledge of Henry terminated here, I 
should have hardly believed that my admiration and 
regret for him could have been increased ; but I had yet 
to learn that his moral qualities, his good sense, and his 
whole feelings, were as admirable as his industry and 
genius. All his letters to his family have been commu- 
nicated to me without reserve, and most of those to his 
friends. A selection from these are arranged in chron- 
ological order, in these volumes.* which will make him 
his own biographer, and lay open to the world as pure, 
and as excellent, a heart, as it ever pleased the Al- 
mighty to warm with life. Much has been suppressed, 
which, if Henry had been, like Chatterton of another 
generation, I should willingly have published, and the 
world would willingly have received ; but in doing 
honor to the dead, I have been scrupulously careful 
never to forget the living. 

It is not possible to conceive a human being more 
amiable in all the relations of life. He was the confi- 
dential friend and adviser of every member of his family; 
this he instinctively became ; and the thorough good 
sense of his advice is not less remarkable than the affec- 
* The Remains of H. Kirke White were originally published in two 
volumes. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 53 

tion with which it is always communicated. To his 
mother, he is as earnest in beseeching her to be careful 
of her health, as he is in laboring to convince her that 
his own complaints were abating ; his letters to her are 
always of hopes, of consolation, and of love. To Neville 
he writes with the most brotherly intimacy, still, how- 
ever, in that occasional tone of advice which it was his 
nature to assume, not from any arrogance of superiority, 
but from earnestness of pure affection. To his younger 
brother he addresses himself like the tenderest and 
wisest parent ; and to two sisters, then too young for 
any other communication, he writes to direct their stud- 
ies, to inquire into their jjrogress, to encourage, and to 
improve them. Such letters as these are not for the 
public ; but they to whom they are addressed will lay 
them to their hearts like relics, and will find in them a 
saving virtue, more than ever relics possessed. 

With regard to his poems, the criterion for selection 
was not so plain ; undoubtedly many have been chosen 
which he himself would not have published, and some 
few which, had he lived to have taken that rank among 
English poets which would assuredly have been within 
his reach, I also should then have rejected among his 
posthumous papers. I have, however, to the best of 
my judgment, selected none which does not either mark 
the state of his mind, or its progress, or discover evident 
proofs of what he would have been, if it had not been 
the will of Heaven to remove him so soon. The reader 
who feels any admiration for Henry will take some in- 
terest in all these remains, because they are his ; he who 
shall feel none must have a blind heart, and therefore 
a blind understanding. Such poems are to be consid- 
ered as making up his history. But the greater number 
are of such beauty, that Chatterton is the only youthful 
poet whom he does not leave far behind him. 

While he was under Mr. Grainger, he wrote very 
little ; and when he went to Cambridge, he was advised 
to stifle his poetical fire, for severer and more important 



54 LIFE OF 

studies ; to lay a billet on the embers until he had 
taken his degree, and then he might fan it into a flame 
again. This advice he followed so scrupulously, that a 
few fragments, written chiefly upon the back of his 
mathematical papers, are all which he produced at the 
University. The greater part, therefore, of these poems, 
indeed nearly the whole of them, were written before he 
was nineteen. Wise as the advice may have been which 
had been given him. it is now to be regretted that he 
adhered to it, his latter fragments bearing all those 
marks of improvement which were to be expected from 
a mind so rapidly and continually progressive. Fre- 
quently he expresses a fear that early death would rob 
him of his fame ; yet, short as his life was, it has been 
long enough for him to leave works worthy of remem- 
brance. The very circumstance of his early death gives 
a new interest to his memory, and thereby new force to 
his example. Just at that age when the painter would 
have wished to fix his likeness, and the lover of poetry 
would delight to contemplate him, in the fair morning 
of his virtues, the full spring blossom of his hopes, — just 
at that age hath death set the seal of eternity upon him, 
and the beautiful hath been made permanent. To the 
young poets who come after him, Henry will be what 
Chatterton was to him ; and they will find in him an 
example of hopes, with regard to worldly fortune, as 
humble and as exalted in all better things, as are en- 
joined equally by wisdom and religion, by the experi- 
ence of man, and the word of God. And this example 
will be as encouraging as it is excellent. It has been 
too much the custom to complain that genius is neg- 
lected, and to blame the public when the public is not 
in fault. They who are thus lamented as the victims of 
genius, have been, in almost every instance, the victims 
of their own vice? ; while genius has been made, like 
charity, to cover a multitude of sins, and to excuse that 
which in reality it aggravates. In this age, and in this 
country, whoever deserves encouragement, is, sooner or 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 55 

later, sure to receive it. Of this, Henry's history is an 
honorable proof. The particular patronage which he 
accepted, was given as much to his piety and religious 
opinions, as to his genius ; but assistance was offered 
him from other quarters. Mr. P. Thomson (of Boston, 
Lincolnshire), merely upon perusing his little volume, 
wrote to know how he could serve him ; and there were 
many friends of literature who were ready to have af- 
forded him any support which he needed, if he had not 
been thus provided. In the University, he received 
every encouragement which he merited, and from Mr. 
Simeon, and his tutor, Mr. Catton, the most fatherly 
kindness. 

"I can venture," says a lady of Cambridge, in a 
letter to his brother, " I can venture to say, with cer- 
tainty, there was no member of the University, however 
high his rank or talents, who would not have been 
happy to have availed themselves of the opportunity of 
being acquainted with Mr. Henry Kirke White. I men- 
tion this to introduce a wish, which has been expressed 
to me so often by the senior members of the University, 
that I dare not decline the task they have imposed 
upon me ; it is their hope that Mr. Southey will do as 
much justice to Mr. Henry White's limited wishes, to 
his unassuming pretensions, and to his rational and 
fervent piety, as to his various acquirements, his pol- 
ished taste, his poetical fancy, his undeviating princi- 
ples, and the excellence of his moral character : and 
that he will suffer it to be understood, that these inesti- 
mable qualities had not been unobserved, nor would 
they have remained unacknowledged. It was the general 
observation, that he possessed genius without its eccen- 
tricities." 

Of his fervent piety, his letters, his prayers, and his 
hymns, will afford ample and interesting proofs. I must 
be permitted to say, that my own views of the religion of 
Jesus Christ differ essentially from the system of belief 
which he had adopted ; but, having said this, it is, in- 



56 • LIFE OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

deed, my anxious wish to do full justice to piety so fer- 
vent. It was in him a living and quickening principle 
of goodness, which sanctified all his hopes, and all his 
affections ; which made him keep watch over his own 
heart, and enabled him to correct the few symptoms 
which it ever displayed of human imperfection. 

His temper had been irritable in his younger days, 
but this he had long since effectually overcome : the 
marks of youthful confidence, which appear in his ear- 
liest letters, had also disappeared ; and it was impos- 
sible for man to be more tenderly patient of the faults 
of others, more uniformly meek, or more unaffectedly 
humble. He seldom discovered any sportiveness of im- 
agination, though he would very ably and pleasantly 
rally any one of his friends for any little peculiarity ; 
his conversation was always sober, and to the purpose. 
That which is most remarkable in him, is his uniform 
good sense, a faculty perhaps less common than genius. 
There never existed a more dutiful son, a more affec- 
tionate brother, a warmer friend, nor a devouter Chris- 
tian. Of his powers of mind it is superfluous to speak ; 
they were acknowledged wherever they were known. It 
would be idle too, to say what hopes were entertained 
of him, and what he might have accomplished in litera- 
ture. These volumes contain what he has left, — imma- 
ture buds, and blossoms shaken from the tree, and 
green fruit ; yet will they evince what the harvest would 
have been, and secure for him that remembrance upon 
earth for which he toiled. 

" Thou soul of God's best earthly mould, 
Thou happy soul ! and can it be 
That there * * * 
Are all that must remain of thee ! " 

Wordsworth. 



LETTEES. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, September, 1799. 
Dear Brother, 

In consequence of your repeated solicitations, I now 
sit down to write to you, although I never received an 
answer to the last letter which I wrote, nearly six 
months ago ; but as I never heard you mention it in 
any of my mother's letters, 1 am induced to think it has 
miscarried, or been mislaid in your office. 

It is now nearly four months since I entered into Mr. 
Coldham's office, and it is with pleasure I can assure 
you that I have never yet found anything disagreeable, 
but, on the contrary, everything I do seems a pleasure 
to me, and for a very obvious reason ; — it is a business 
which I like — a business which I chose before all others ; 
and I have two good-tempered, easy masters, but who 
will, nevertheless, see that their business is done in a 
neat and proper manner. The study of the law is well 
known to be a dry, difficult task, and requires a com- 
prehensive, good understanding ; and I hope you will 
allow me (without charging me with egotism) to have a 
tolerable one ; and I trust, with perseverance, and a 
very large law library to refer to, I shall be able to ac- 
complish the study of so much of the laws of England, 
and our system of jurisprudence, in less than five years, 
as to enable me to be a country attorney ; and then, as 
I shall have two more years to serve, I hope I shall at- 
tain so much knowledge in all parts of the law, as to 



58 LETTERS OF 



enable me, with a little study at the inns of court, to 
hold an argument, on the nice points in the law, with the 
best attorney in the kingdom . A man that understands 
the law is sure to have business j and in case I have no 
thoughts, in case, that is, that 1 do not aspire to hold 
the honorable place of a barrister, I shall feel sure of 
gaining a genteel livelihood at the business to which I 
am articled. 

I attend at the office at eight in the morning, and 
leave at eight in the avening ; then attend my Latin 
until nine, which, you may be sure, is pretty close con- 
finement. 

Mr. Coldham is clerk to the commercial commission- 
ers, which has occasioned us a deal of extraordinary 
work. I worked all Sunday, and until twelve o'clock 
on Saturday night, when they were hurried to give in 
the certificates to the bank. We had also a very 
troublesome cause last assizes, The Corporation ler&us 
Gee, which we (the attornies for the corporation) lost. It 
was really a very fatiguing day (I mean the day on 
which it was tried). I never got anything to eat, from 
five in the afternoon the preceeding day, until twelve 
the nft*t night, when the trial ended. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, 2ith Jane, 1800. 

Dear Brother, 

***** 

My mother has allowed me a good deal lately for 
books, and I have a large assortment (a retailer's 
phrase). But I hope you do not suppose they consist 
of novels ; — no — I have made a firm resolution never to 
spend above one hour at this amusement. Though I have 
been obliged to enter into this resolution in consequence 
of a vitiated taste acquired by reading romances, I do 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 59 

not intend to banish them entirely from my desk. After 
long and fatiguing researches in Blackstone or Coke, 
when the mind becomes weak, through intense applica- 
tion, Tom Jones or Robinson Crusoe, will afford a pleas- 
ing and necessary relaxation. 

Apropos — now,we are speaking of Robinson Crusoe, I 
shall observe, that it is allowed to be the best novel for 
youth in the English language. De Foe, the author, 
was a singular character ; but as I make no doubt you 
have read his life, I will not trouble you with any fur- 
ther remarks. 

The books which I now read with attention, are 
Blackstone, Knox's Essays, Plutarch, Chesterfield's 
Letters, four large volumes, Virgil, Homer, and Cicero, 
and several others. Blackstone and Knox, Virgil and 
Cicero, I have got ; the other I read out of Mr. Cold- 
ham's library. I have finished Rollin's Ancient History, 
Blair's Lectures, Smith's Wealth of Nations, Hume's 
England, and British Nepos, lately. When I have read 
Knox, I will send it you, and recommend it to your at- 
tentive perusal ; it is a most excellent work. I also 
read now the British Classics, the common edition of 
which I now take in ; it comes every fortnight ; I dare 
say you have seen it ; it is Cooke's edition. I would 
recommend you also to read these ; I will send them to 
you. I have got the Citizen of the World, Idler, Gold- 
smith's Essays, and part of the Rambler. I will send 
you soon the fourth number of the Monthly Preceptor. 
I am noticed as worthy of commendation, and as afford- 
ing an encouraging prospect of future excellence. — You 
will laugh. I have also turned poet, and have trans- 
lated an ode of Horace into English verse, also for the 
Monthly Preceptor, but, unfortunately, when I sent it, 
I forgot the title, so it won't be noticed. 

I do not forsake the flowery paths of poesy, for that 
is my chief delight ; I read the best poets. Mr. Coldham 
has got Johnson's complete set, with their lives ; these, 
of course, I read. 



6o LETTERS OF 



With a little drudgery, I read Italian — Have got 
some good Italian works, as Pastor Fido, &c, &c. I 
taught myself, and have got a grammar. 

I must now beg leave to return you my sincere 
thanks for your kind present. I like " La Bruyere the 
Less " very much ; I have read the original La Bruyere; 
I think him like Rochefoucault. Madame de Genis is a 
very able woman. 

* * * * 

But I must now attempt to excuse my neglect in not 
writing to you. First, I have been very busy with these 
essays and poems for the Monthly Preceptor. Second, 
I was rather angry at your last letter — I can bear any- 
thing but a sneer, and it was one continued grin from 
beginning to end, as were all the notices you made of 
me in my mother's letters, and I could not, nor can I 
now, brook it. I could say much more, but it is very 
late, and must beg leave to wish you good night. 

I am, dear brother, 

Your affectionate friend, 
H. K. White. 

P. S. You may expect a regular correspondence from 
me in future, but no sneers ; and shall be very obliged 
by a long letter. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, 25th June, 1800. 

Dear Neville, 

^c * * * * * 

You are inclined to flatter me when you compare my 
application with yours ; in truth, I am not half so as- 
siduous as you, and I am conscious I waste a deal of 
time unwittingly,, But, in reading, I am upon the con- 
tinual search for improvment : I thirst after knowledge, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 61 



and though my disposition is naturally idle, I conquer 
it when reading a useful book. The plan which I pur- 
sued, in order to subdue my disinclination to dry books, 
was this, to begin attentively to peruse it, and continue 
thus one hour ever^y day : the book insensibly, by this 
means, becomes pleasing to you ; and even vvdien read- 
ing Blackstone's Commentaries, which are very dry, I 
lay down the book with regret. 

With regard to the Monthly Preceptor, I certainly 
shall be agreeable to your taking it in, as my only ob- 
jection was the extreme impatience which I feel to see 
whether my essays have been successful ; but this may 
be obviated by your speedy perusal, and not neglecting 
to forward it. But you must have the goodness not to 
begin till August, as my bookseller cannot stop it this 

month. 

* # * * 

I had a ticket given me to the boxes, on Monday 
night, for the benefit of Campbell, from Drury-lane, and 
there was such a riot as never was experienced here be- 
fore. He is a democrat, and the soldiers planned a riot 
in conjunction with the mob. We heard the shouting 
of the rabble in the street before the play was over : the 
moment the curtain dropt, an officer went into the front 
box, and gave the word of command : immediately about 
sixty troopers started up, and six trumpeters in the pit 
played "God save the King." The noise was astonish- 
ing. The officers in the boxes then drew their swords, 
and at another signal the privates in the pit drew their 
bludgeons, which they had hitherto concealed, and 
attacked all indiscriminately that had not a uniform : 
the officers did the same with their swords, and the 
house was one continued scene of confusion : one pistol 
was fired, and the ladies were fainting in the lobby. 
The outer doors were shut, to keep out the mob, and 
the people jumped on the stage as a last resource. One 
of these noble officers, seeing one man stand in the pit 
with his hat on, jumped over the division and cut him 



62 LETTERS OF 



with his sword, which the man instantly wrenched from 
him and broke, whilst the officer sneaked back in dis- 
grace. They then formed a troop, and having emptied 
the playhouse, they scoured the streets with their 
swords, and returned home victorious. The players are, 
in consequence, dismissed, and we have informations in 

our office against the officers. 

* * * * 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, Michaelmas-day, 1800. 

Dear Neville, 

I cannot divine what, in an epistolary correspond- 
ence, can have such charms (with people who write only 
common-place occurrences) as to attach a man from his 
usual affairs, and make him waste time and paper on 
what cannot be of the least real benefit to his corre- 
spondent. Amongst relatives, certainty there is always 
an incitement, we always feel an anxiety for their wel- 
fare. But I have no friend so dear to me, as to cause 
me to take the trouble of reading his letters, if they only 
contained an account of his health, and the mere noth- 
ings of the day ; indeed, such a one would be un- 
worthy of friendship. What then is requisite to make 
one's correspondence valuable ? I answer, sound sense. 
— Nothing more is requisite ; as to the style, one may 
very readily excuse its faults, if repaid by the senti- 
ments. You have better natural abilities than many 
youth, but it is with regret I see that you will not give 
yourself the trouble of writing a good letter. There is 
hardly any species of composition (in my opinion) easier 
than the epistolary ; but, my friend, you never found 
any art, however trivial, that did not require some ap- 
plication at first. For, if an artist, instead of endeavor- 
ing to surmount the difficulties which presented them- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 63 

selves, were to rest contented with mediocrity, how 
could he possibly ever arrive at excellence ? Thus 'tis 
with you ; instead of that indefatigable perseverance 
which, in other cases, is a leading trait in your char- 
acter, I hear you say, " Ah, my poor brains were never 
formed for letter-writing — I shall never write a good 
.letter," or some such phrases ; and thus, by despairing 
of ever arriving at excellence, you render yourself hardly 
tolerable. You may, perhaps, think this art beneath 
your notice, or unworthy of your pains ; if so, you are 
assuredly mistaken, for there is hardly anything which 
would contribute more to the advancement of a young 
man, or which is more engaging. 

You read, I believe, a good deal ; nothing could be 
more acceptable to me, or more improving to you, than 
making a part of your letters to consist of your senti- 
ments, and opinion of the books you peruse ; you have 
no idea how beneficial this would be to yourself ; and 
that you are able to do it, I am certain. One of the 
greatest impediments to good writing, is the thinking 
too much before you note down. This, I think, you 
are not entirely free from. I hope, that by always 
writing the first idea that presents itself, you will soon 
conquer it ; my letters are always the rough first draft ; 
of course there are many alterations ; these you will 
excuse. 

I have written most of my letters to you in so negli- 
gent a manner, that, if you would have the goodness to 
return all you have preserved sealed, I will peruse them, 
and all sentences worth preserving I will extract, and 
return. 

You observe, in your last, that your letters are read 
with contempt. — Do you speak as you think ? 

You had better write again to Mr. . Between 

friends the common forms of the world, in writing letter 
for letter, need not be observed ; but never write three 
without receiving one in return, because in that case 
they must be thought unworthy of answer. 



% — 

64 LETTERS OF 

_* — — ■ 

We have been so busy lately, I could not answer 
yours sooner. — Once a month suppose we write to each 
other. If you ever find that my correspondence is 
not worth the trouble of carrying on, inform me of it, 
and it shall cease. 

* * * * 

P. S. If any expression in this be too harsh, excuse 
it. — I am not in an ill humor, recollect. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, 11th April, 1801. 

Dear Neville, 

On opening yours, I was highly pleased to find tw© 
and a half sheets of paper, and nothing could exceed 
my joy at so apparently long a letter ; but, upon find- 
ing it consisted of sides filled after the rate of five words 
in a line, and nine lines in a page, I could not conceal 
my chagrin ; and I am sure I may very modestly say, 
that one of my ordinary pages contains three of yours ; 
if you knew half the pleasure I feel in your correspond- 
ence, I am confident you would lengthen your letters. 
You tantalize me wdth the hopes of a prolific harvest, 
and I find, alas ! a thin crop, whose goodness only makes 
me lament its scantiness. 

* * * * 

I had almost forgot to tell you that I have obtained 
the first prize (of a pair of Adams's twelve-inch globes, 
value three guineas) in the first class of the Monthly 
Preceptor. The subject was an imaginary tour from 
London to Edinburgh. It is printed consequently, and 
I shall send it to you the very first opportunity. The 
proposals stated that the essay was not to exceed three 
pages when printed — mine takes seven ; therefore I am 
astonished they gave me the first prize. There was an 
extraordinary number of candidates, and they said they 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 65 

never had a greater number of excellent ones, and they 
wished they could have given thirty prizes. You will 
find it (in a letter) addressed to N , meaning your- 
self. 

* * * * 

Warton is a poet from whom I have derived the most 
exquisite pleasure and gratification. He abounds in 
sublimity and loftiness of thought as well as expression. 
His Pleasures of Melancholy is truly a sublime poem. 
The following passage I particularly admire : — 

" Nor undelight-ful in tlie solemn noon 
Of night, where, haply wakeful from my couch 
I start, lo, all is motionless around ! 
Roars not the rushing wind ; the sons of men, 
And every beast, in mute oblivion lie ; 
All Nature's hush'd in silence, and in sleep. 
Oh, then, how fearful is it to reflect, 
That through the still globe's awful solitude 
No being wakes but me ! " 

How affecting are the latter lines ! it is impossible to 
withstand the emotions which rise on its perusal, and I 
envy not that man his insensibility who can read them 
with apathy. Many of the pieces of the Bible are written 
in this sublime manner : one psalm, I think the 18th, is 
a perfect masterpiece, and has been imitated by many 
poets. Compare these, or the above quoted from War- 
ton, and the finest piece in Pope, and then judge of the 
rank which he holds as a poet. Another instance of the 
sublime in poetry, I will give you from Akenside's ad- 
mirable Pleasures of Imagination, where, speaking of 
the Soul, he says, she 

" Rides on the volley'd lightning through the heav'ns, 
And yoked with whirlwinds, and the northern blast, 
Sweeps the long tract of day." 

Many of these instances of sublimity will occur to 
you in "Thomson. 

James begs leave to present you with Bloomfield's 
Farmer's Boy. Bloomfield has no grandeur or height j 

5 



66 LETTERS OF 



he is a pastoral poet, and the simply sweet is what you 
are to expect from him ; nevertheless, his descrij "ions 
are sometimes little inferior to Thomson. 

* * * * 

How pleased should I be, Neville, to have you with 
us at Nottingham ! Our fire-side would be delightful. — 
I should profit by your sentiments and experience, and 
you possibly might gain a little from my small bookish 
knowledge. But I am afraid that time will never come ; 
your time of apprenticeship is nearly expired, and, in 
all appearance, the small residue that yet remains will 
be passed in hated London. When you are emanci- 
pated, you will have to mix in the bustle of the world, 
in all probability, also, far from home \ so that when 
we have just learnt how happy we might naturally 
make ourselves, we find scarcely a shadow of a proba- 
bility of ever having the opportunity. Well, well, it is 

in vain to resist the immutable decrees of fate. 

* # * * 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, April, 1801. 

Dear Neville, 

As I know you will participate with me in the pleas- 
ure I receive from literary distinctions, I hasten to in- 
form you, that my poetical Essay on Gratitude is printed 
in this month's Preceptor — that my Remarks on Warton 
are promised insertion in the next month's Mirror, and 
that my Essay on Truth is printed in the present (April) 
Monthly Visitor. The Preceptor I shall not be able to 
send you until the end of this month. The Visitor you 
will herewith receive. The next month's Mirror I shall 
consequently buy. I wish it were not quite so expen- 
sive, as I think it a very good work. Benjamin Thom- 
son, Capel Lofft, Esq., Robert Bloomfield, Thomas Der- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 67 

mody, Mr. Gilchrist, under the signature of Octavius, 
Mrs. Blore, a noted female writer, under the signature 
of Q.Z., are correspondents; and the editors are not 
only men of genius and taste, but of the greatest re- 
spectability. As I shall now be a regular contributor to 
this work, and as I think it contains much good matter, 
I have half an inclination to take it in, more especially 
as you have got the prior volumes ; but in the present 
state of my finances, it will not be prudent, unless you 
accede to a proposal which, I think, will be gratifying 
to yourself. It is to take it in conjunction with me, by 
which means we shall both have the same enjoyment of 
it, with half the expense. It is of little consequence who 
takes them, only he must be expeditious in reading them. 
If you have any the least objection to this scheme, do 
not suppress it through any regard to punctilio. I have 
only proposed it, and it is not very material whether 
you concur or not ; only exercise your own discretion. 

You say, (speaking of a passage concerning you in 
my last,) " this is compliment sufficient ; the rest must 
be flattery." — Do you seriously, Neville, think me capa- 
ble of flattery? 

As you well know I am a carping, critical little dog, 
you will not be surprised at my observing that there is 
one figure in your last that savors rather of the ludi- 
crous, when you talk of a " butterfly hopping from book 
to book." 

As to the something that I am to find out, that is a 
perpetual bar to your progress in knowledge, &c, 1 am 
inclined to think, Doctor, it is merely conceit. You 
fancy that you cannot write a letter — you dread its 
idea ; you conceive that a work of four volumes would 
require the labors of a life to read through ; you per- 
suade yourself that you cannot retain what you read, 
and in despair do not attempt to conquer these vision- 
ary impediments. Confidence, Neville, in one's own 
abilities, is a sure forerunner (in similar circumstances 
with the present) of success. As an illustration of this, 



68 LETTERS OF 



I beg leave to adduce the example of Pope, who had so 
high a sense, in his youth, or rather in his infancy, of 
his own capacity, that there was nothing of which, 
when once set about it, he did not think himself capa- 
ble ;. and, as Dr. Johnson has observed, the natural 
consequence of this minute preception of his own pow- 
ers, was his arriving at as high a pitch of perfection as 
it was possible for a man, with his few natural endow- 
ments, to attain. 

* - * # * 

When you wish to read Johnson's Lives of the Poets, 
send for them : I have lately purchased them. I have 
now a large library. My mother allows me ten pounds 
per annum for clothes. I always dress in a respectable, 
and even in a genteel manner, yet I can make much 
less than this sum suffice. My father generally gives me 
one coat in a year, ; d I make two serve. I then re- 
ceive one guinea per annum for keeping my mother's 
books ; one guinea per annum pocket money ; and by 
other means I gain, perhaps, two guineas more per an- 
num : so that I have been able to buy pretty many ; 
and when you come home, you will find me in my study, 
surrounded with books and papers. I am a perfect 
garreteer : great part of my library, however, consists 
of professional books. Have you read Burke on the 
Sublime? Knox's Winter Evening ? — Can lend them to 
you, if you have not. 

Really, Neville, were you fully sensible how much 
my time is occupied, principally about my profession, 
as a primary concern, and in the hours necessarily set 
apart to relaxation on polite literature, to which, as a 
hobby-horse, I am very desirous of paying some atten- 
tion, you would not be angry at my delay in writing, 
or my short letters. It is always with joy that I devote 
a leisure hour to you, as it affords you gratification ; 
and rest assured, that I always participate in your 
pleasure, and poignantly feel every adverse incident 
which causes you pain. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 69 

Permit me, however, again to observe, that one of 
my sheets is equal to two of yours ; and I cannot but 
consider this as a kind of fallacious deception, for you 
always think that your letters contain so much more 
than mine, because they occupy more room. If you 
were to count the words, the difference would not be so 
great. You must also take in account the unsealed 
communications to periodical works, which I now reckon 
a part of my letter, and therefore you must excuse my 
concluding, on the first sheet, by assuring you that I 
still remain 

Your friend and brother, 

H. K. White. 

P.S. A postcript is a natural appendage to a letter. 
— I only have to say, that positively you shall receive 
a six or eight sheet letter, and that written legibly, ere 
long. 



TO MR. BOOTH. 

Nottingham, August 12th, 1801. 

Dear Sir, 

I must beg leave to apologize for not having returned 
my sincere acknowledgments to yourself and Mrs. Booth, 
for your very acceptable presents, at an earlier period. 
I now, however, acquit myself of the duty, and assure 
you, that from both of the works I have received much 
gratification, and edification, but more particularly 
from one on the Trinity,* a production which dis- 
plays much erudition, and a very laudable zeal for the 
true interests of religion. Religious polemics, indeed, 
have seldom formed a part of my studies; though, 
whenever I happened accidentally to turn my thoughts 
to the subject of the Protestant doctrine of the God- 
head, and compared it with Arian and Socinian, many 
* Jones on the Trinity. 



70 LETTERS OF 



doubts interfered, and I even began to think that the 
more nicely the subject was investigated, the more per- 
plexed it would appear, and was on the point* of form- 
ing a resolution to go to heaven in my own wu,y, with- 
out meddling or involving myself in the cxtricable 
labyrinth of controversial dispute, when I received and 
perused this excellent treatise, which finally cleared up 
the mists which my ignorance had conjured around me, 
and clearly pointed out tho real truth The intention 
of the author precluded the possibility of his employing 
the ornaments and graces of composition in his work ; 
for as it was meint for all ranks, it must bo suited to 
all capacities ; but the arguments are drawn i.pand ar- 
ranged in so forcible and perspicuous a manner, and 
are written so plainly, yet pleasinrly, that I was abso- 

Ilutely charmed with them. 
The Evangelical Clergyman is a very smart piece ; 
the author possesses a considerable portion of sarcastic 
spirit, and no little acrimony, perhaps not consistent 
with the christian meekness which he wishes to incul- 
cate. I consider, however, that London would not 
have many graces, or attractions, if despoiled of all the 
amusements to which, in one part of his pamphlet, he 
objects. In theory, the destruction of these vicious rec- 
reations is very fine ; but in practice, I am afraid he 
would find it quite different. * * * The other parts 
of this piece are very just, and such as every person 
must subscribe to. Clergymen, in general, are not what 

they ought to be ; and I think Mr. has pointed out 

their duties very accurately. But I am afraid I shall be 
deemed impertinent and tiresome, in troubling you with 
ill-timed and obtrusive opinions, and beg leave, there- 
fore, to conclude, with respects to yourself and Mrs. 
Booth, by assuring you that I am, according to custom 
from time immemorial, and in due form, 

Dear Sir, 
Your obliged humble Servant, 

Henry Kirke White. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 71 



TO MR. CHAKLESWORTH. 

Nottingham, , 1802. 

Dear Sir, 

I am sure you will excuse me for not having imme- 
diately answered your letter, when I relate the cause. — 
I was preparing, at that moment when I received yours, 
a volume of poems for the press, which I shall shortly 
see published. I finished and sent them off for London 
last night ; and I now hasten to acknowledge your 
letter. 

I am very happy that any poem of mine should meet 
with your approbation. I prefer the cool and dispas- 
sionate praise of the discriminate few, to the boisterous 
applause of the crowd. 

Our professions neither of them leave much leisure 
for the study of polite literature ; I myself have, how- 
ever, coined time, if you will allow the metaphor ; and 
while I have made such a proficiency in the law as has 
ensured me the regard of my governors, I have paid my 
secret devoirs to the ladies of Helicon. My draughts at 
the "fountain Arethuse," it is true, have been princi- 
pally made at the hour of midnight, when even the 
guardian nymphs of the well may be supposed to have 
slept ; they are, consequently, stolen and forced. I do 
nut see anything in the confinement of our situations, 
in the mean time, which should separate congenial 
minds. A literary acquaintance is, to me, always valu- 
able ; and a friend, whether lettered or unlettered, is 
highly worth cultivation. I hope we shall both of us 
have enough leisure to keep up an intimacy, which 
began very agreeably for me, and has been suffered to 
decay with regret. 

I am not able to do justice to your unfortunate 
friend Gill ; I knew him only superficially, and yet I saw 



72 LETTERS OF 



enough of his unassuming modesty, and simplicity of 
manners, to feel a conviction that he had a valuable 
heart. The verses on the other side are jDerhaps beneath 
mediocrity ; they are, sincerely, the work of thirty min- 
utes this morning, and I send them to you with all their 
imperfections on their head. 

Perhaps they will have sufficient merit for the Not- 
tingham paper ; at least their locality will shield them 
a little in that situation, and give them an interest they 
do not otherwise possess. 

Do you think calling the Naiads of the fountains 
" Nymphs of Paeon " is an allowable liberty? The al- 
lusion is to their healthy and bracing qualities. 

The last line of the seventh stanza contains an ap- 
parent pleonasm, to say no worse of it, and yet it was 
not written as such. The idea was from the shriek of 
Death (personified), and the scream of the dying man. 
* * * * 



ELEGY 



Occasioned by the Death of Mr. Gill, who was drowned 
in the river Trent, while bathing, 9th August, 1802. 

i. 

He sunk — th* impetuous river roll'd along, 
The sullen wave betray' d his dying breath ; * 

And rising sad the rustling sedge among, 
The gale of evening touch'd the cords of death. 

II. 

Nymph of the Trent ! why didst not thou appear 
To snatch the victim from thy felon wave ? 



* This line may appear somewhat obscure. It alludes to the last bub- 
bling of the water, after a person has sunk, caused by the final expira- 
tion of the air from the lungs ; inhalation, by introducing the water 
produces suffocation. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 73 

Alas ! too late thou cam'st to embalm his bier, 
And deck with water-flags his early grave. 

III. 

Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey, 
Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride ; 

While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay, 
And ask the swoln corse from the murdering tide. 

IV. 

The stealing tear-dsop stagnates in the eye, 
The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved, 

I mark them rise — I mark the gen'ral sigh : 
Unhappy youth ! and wert thou so beloved ? 

v. 

On thee, as lone 1 trace the Trent's green brink, 
When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade ; 

On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink 
To hold mysterious converse with thy shade. 

VI. 

Of thee, as early I, with vagrant feet, 

Hail the gray-sandal' d morn in Col wick's vale, 

Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet, 
And wild wood echoes shall repeat the tale. 

VII. 

And oh ! ye nymphs of Paeon ! who preside 
O'er running rill and salutary stream, 

Guard ye in future well the Halcyon tide 
From the rude Death-shriek and the dying scream. 



TO MR. M. HARRIS. 

Nottingham, lUh March, 1802. 

Dear Sir, 

I was greatly surprised at your letter of the twenty- 
seventh, for I had in reality given you up for lost. I 



74 LETTERS OF 

should long since have written to you, in answer to 
your note about the Lexicon, but was perfectly ignor- 
ant of the place of your abode. For anything I knew 
to the contrary, you might have been quaffing the juice 
of the cocoa-nut under the broad bananas of the Indies, 
breathing the invigorating air of liberty in the broad 
savannas of America, or sweltering beneath the line. I 
had, however, even then some sort of a presentiment 
that you were not quite so far removed from our foggy 
atmosphere, but not enough to prevent me from being 
astonished at finding you so near us at Leicester. You 
tell me I must not ask you what you are doing; lam 
nevertheless very anxious to know ; not so much, I flat- 
ter myself, from any inquisitiveness of spirit, as from a 
desire to hear of your welfare. Why, my friend, did 
you leave us? possessing as you did, if not exactly the 
otium cum dignitate, something very like it ; having 
every comfort and enjoyment at your call, which the 
philosophical mind can find pleasure in ; and above all, 
blessed with that easy competence, that sweet indepen- 
dence, which renders the fatigues of employment sup- 
portable, and even agreeable. 

Quod satis est, cut contingit, nihil amplius optet. 

Certainly, to a man of your disposition, no situation 
could have more charms than yours at the Trent Bridge. 
I regard those hours which I spent with you there, 
while the moonbeam was trembling on the waters, and 
the harp of Eolus was giving us its divine swells and 
dying falls, as the most sweetly tranquil of my life. 

* * * * 

I have applied myself rather more to Latin than to 
Greek since you left us. I make use of Schrevelius's 
Lexicon, but shall be obliged to you to buy me the 
Parkhurst, at any decent price, if possible. Can you 
tell me any mode of joining the letters in writing in the 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 75 

Greek character ; I find it difficult enough. The follow- 
ing is my manner ; is it right ? * 

* * * * 

I can hardly flatter myself that you will give your- 
self the trouble of corresponding with me, as all the 
advantage would be on my side, without anything to 
compensate for it on yours ; but — but in fact I do not 
know what to say further, — only, that whenever you 
shall think me worthy of a letter, I shall be highly grat- 
ified. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, lOt/t February, 1803 

Dear Neville, 

* * * * 

Now with regard to the subscription, I shall certainly 
agree to this mode of publication, and I am very much 
obliged to you for what you say regarding it. But we 
must wait (except among your private friends) until we 
get Lady Derby's answer, and Proposals are printed. 
I think we shall readily raise 350, though Nottingham 
is the worst place imaginable for anything of that kind. 
Even envy will interfere. I shall send proposals to 
Chesterfield, to my uncle ; to Sheffield, to Miss Gales's 
(booksellers), whom I saw at Chesterfield, and who have 
lately sent me a pressing invitation to S , accom- 
panied with a desire of Montgomery (the Poet Paul Posi- 
tive), to see me ; to Newark — Allen and Wright, my 
friends there (the latter a bookseller) ; and I think if 
they were stitched up with all the Monthly Mirrors, it 
would promote the subscription. You are not to take 
any money ; that would be absolute begging : the sub- 
scribers put down their names, and pay the bookseller 

of whom they get the copy. 

# # # # 

* The few Greek words which followed were beautifully written. 



J 6 LETTERS OF 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, 10th March, 1803. 

Dear Neville, 

I am cured of patronage hunting ; I will not expose 
myself to any more similar mortifications, but shall 
thank you to send the manuscripts to Mr. Hill, with a 
note, stating that I had written to the Duchess, and re- 
ceiving no answer, you had called, and been informed 
by a servant, that in all probability she never read the 
letter, as she desired to know what the book was left- 
there for ; that you had, in consequence, come away 
with the manuscripts, under a conviction that your bro- 
ther would give her Grace no further trouble. State 
also that you have received a letter from me, expressing 
a desire that the publication might be proceeded on, 
without any further solicitation or delay. 

A name of eminence was, nevertheless, a most de- 
sirable thing to me in Nottingham, as it would attach 
more respectability to the subscription ; but I see all 
further efforts will only be productive of procrastina- 
tion. 

* * * * 

I think you may as well begin to obtain subscribers 
amongst friends now, though the proposals may not be 
issued at present. 

I have got twenty-three, without making the affair 
public at all, among my immediate acquaintance : and 
mind, I neither solicit nor draw the conversation to the 
subject, but a rumor has got abroad, and has been re- 
ceived more favorably than I expected. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 11 

TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, 2d May, 1803. 

Dear Neville, 

I have just gained a piece of intelligence which much 
vexes me. Robinson, the bookseller, knows that I have 
written to the Duchess of Devonshire, and he took the 
liberty (certainly an unwarrantable one) to mention it 

to , whose was inscribed to her Grace. Mr. 

said, that unless I had got a friend to deliver the 

poems, personally, into the hands of her Grace, it was 
a hundred to one that they ever reached her; that the 
porter at the lodge burns scores of letters and packe ts a 
day, and particularly all letters by the twopenny post 
are consigned to the fire. The rest, if they are not 
particularly excepted, as inscribed with a pass name on 
the back, are thrown into a closet, to be reclaimed at 
leisure. He said, the way he proceeded was this : — He 
left his card at her door, and the next day called, and 
was admitted. Her Grace then gave him permission, 
with this proviso, that the dedication was as short as 
possible, and contained no compliments, as the Duke 
had taken offence at some such compliments. 

Now as my letter was delivered by you at the door, 
I have scarcely a doubt that it is classed with the penny- 
post letters, and burnt. If my manuscripts are de- 
stroyed I am ruined, but I hope it is otherwise. How- 
ever, I think you had better call immediately, and ask 
for a parcel of Mr. H. White, of Nottingham. They 
will, of course, say they have no such parcel ; and then, 
perhaps, you may have an opportunity of asking 
whether a packet, left in the manner you left mine, had 
any probability of reaching the Duchess. If you obtain 
no satisfaction, there remains no way of re-obtaining 
my volume but this (and I fear you will never agree to 
put it in execution) : to leave a card, with your name 



78 LETTERS OF 



inscribed (Mr. J. N. White), and call the next day. If 
you are admitted, you will state to her Grace the pur- 
port of your errand, ask for a volume of poems in manu- 
script, sent by your brother a fortnight ago, with a letter 
(say from Nottingham, as a reason ~hy I do not wait 
on her), requesting permission of dedication to her; 
and that as you found her Grace had not received them, 
you had taken the liberty, after many inquiries at her 
door, to request to see her in person. 

I hope your diffidence will not be put to this test ; I 
hope you will get the poems without trouble ; as for 
begging patronage, I am tired to the soul of it, and 
shall give it up. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, , 1803. 

Dear Neville, 

I write you, with intelligence of a very important 
nature. You some time ago had an intimation of my 
wish to enter the church, in case my deafness was not 
removed. About a week ago I became acquainted with 
the Rev. — : — , late of St. John's College, Cambridge, 
and in consequence of what he has said, I have finally 
determined to enter myself of Trinity College, Cam- 
bridge, with the approbation of all my friends. 

Mr. says that it is a shame to keep me away 

from the University, and that circumstances are of no 
importance. He says, that if I am entered of Trinity, 
where there are all select men, I must necessarily, with 
my abilities, arrive at preferment. He says he will be 
answerable that the first year I shall obtain a Scholar- 
ship, or an exhibition adequate to my support. That 
by the time I have been of five years' standing, I shall 
of course become a Fellow, (200Z. a year) j that with the 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 79 

Fellowship, I may hold a Professorship, (500Z. per 
annum) ; and a living or curacy until better, prefer- 
ments occur. He says, that there is no uncertainty in 
the church to a truly pious man, and a man of abilities 
and eloquence. That those who are unprovided for, 
are generally men who, having no interest, are idle 
drones, or dissolute debauchees, and therefore ought not 
to expect advancement. That a poet, in particular, has 
the means of patronage in his pen ; and that in one 
word, no young man can enter the church (except he be 
of family) with better prospects than myself. On the 
other hand, Mr. Enfield has himself often observed, that 
my deafness will be an insuperable obstacle to me as an 
attorney, and has said how unfortunate a thing it was 
for me not to have known of the growing defect in my 
organs of hearing, before I articled myself. Under these 
circumstances, I conceive I should be culpable did I let 

go so good an opportunity as now occurs. Mr. 

will write to all his University friends, and he says there 
is so much liberality there, that they will never let a 
young man of talents be turned from his studies by 
want of cash. 

Yesterday I spoke to Mr. Enfield, and he, with unex- 
ampled generosity, said that he saw clearly what an ad- 
vantageous thing it would be for me ; that I must be 
sensible what a great loss he and Mr. Coldham would 
suffer ; but that he was certain neither he nor Mr. 

C could oppose themselves to anything which was 

so much to my advantage. When Mr. C returns 

from London, the matter will be settled with my 
.mother. 

All my mother's friends seem to think this an excel- 
lent thing for me, and will do all in their power to for- 
ward me. 

Now we come to a very important part of the busi- 
ness — the means. I shall go with my friend Robert, in 
the capacity of Sizar, to whom the expense is not more 
than 601. per annum. Towards this sum my mother 



LETTERS OE 



will contribute 20Z., being: what she allows me now for 
clothes (by this means she will save my board) ; and, 
for the residue, I must trust to getting a Scholarship, 
or Chapel Clerk's post. But, in order to make this 
residue certain, I shall, at the expiration of twelve 
months, publish a second volume of poems by sub- 
scription. 

* * * * 

My friend Mr. , says, that so far as his means 

will go, I shall never ask assistance in vain. He has 
but a small income, though of great family. He has 
just lost two rectories by scruples of conscience, and 

now preaches at for 80Z. a year. The following 

letter he put into my hand as I was leaving him, after 
having breakfasted with him yesterday. He put it into 
my hand, and requested me not to read it until I got 
home. It is a breach of trust letting you see it, but I 
wish you to know his character. 

"My dear Sir, 
" I sincerely wish I had it in my power to render 
you any essential service, to facilitate your passing 
through College : believe me, I have the will, but not 
the means. Should the enclosed be of any service, 
either to purchase books, or for other pocket expenses, 
I request your acceptance of it ; but must entreat you 
not to notice it, either to myself, or any living creature. 
I pray God that you may employ those talents that he 
has given you, to his glory, and to the benefit of his 
people. I have great fears for you ; the temptations of 
College are great. Believe me 

" Very sincerely yours, 

* * * 

The enclosure was 21. 2s. I could not refuse what 

was so delicately offered, though I was sorry to take it : 

he is truly an amiable character. 

* * * * 






HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 8 1 

TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, 1803. 

Dear Neville, 

You may conceive with what emotions I read your 
brotherly letter ; I feel a very great degree of aversion 
to burthening my family any more than I have done, 
and now do ; but an offer so delicate and affectionate 
I cannot refuse j and if I should need pecuniary assist- 
ance, which I am in hopes I shall not, at least after the 
first year, I shall, without a moment's hesitation, apply 
to my brother Neville. 

My College schemes yet remain in a considerable de- 
gree of uncertainty ; I am very uneasy thereabouts. I 
have not heard from Cambridge yet, and it is very 
doubtful whether there be a vacant Sizarship in Trin- 
ity ; so that I can write you no further information on 

this head. 

* * * * 

I suppose you have seen my review in this month's 
Mirror, and that I need not comment upon it ; such a 
review I neither expected, nor in fact deserve. 

I shall not send up the Mirror this month, on this 
account, as it is policy to keep it ; and you have, no 
doubt, received one from Mr. Hill. 

The errors in the Greek quotation I perceived the 
moment I got down the first copies, and altered them, 
in most, with the pen ; they are very unlucky ; I have 
sent up the copies for the reviews myself, in order that 
I might make the correction in them. 

I have got now to write letters to all the Reviewers, 
and hope you will excuse my abrupt conclusion of this 
letter on that score. 

I am, dear Neville, 

Aiiectionately yours, 

H. K. White. 
I shall write to Mr. Hill now the first thing ; I owe 
much to him. 

6 



82 LETTERS OF 



TO MR. B. HADDOCK. 

Nottingham, 

My dear Ben\ 

* * * * 

And now, my dear Ben, I must confess your letter 
gave me much pain ; there is a tone of despondence in 
it which I must condemn, inasmuch as it is occasioned 
by circumstances which do not involve your own exer- 
tions, but which are utterly independent of yourself : if 
you do your duty, why lament that it is not productive f 
In whatever situation we may be placed, there is a duty 
we owe to God and religion ; it is resignation; — nay, I 
may say contentment. All things are in the hands of 
God ; and shall we mortals (if we do not absolutely re- 
pine at his dispensations) be fretful under them ? I do 
beseech you, my dear Ben, summon up the Christian 
within you, and, steeled with holy fortitude, go on your 
way rejoicing ! There is a species of morbid sensibility 
to which I myself have often been a victim, which preys 
upon my heart, and, without giving birth to one ac- 
tively useful or benevolent feeling, does but brood on 
selfish sorrows, and magnify its own misfortunes. The 
evils of such a sensibility, I pray to God you may never 
feel, but I would have you beware, for it grows on per- 
sons of a certain disposition before they are aware of it. 

I am sorry my letter gave you pain, and I trust my 
suspicions were without foundation. Time, my dear 
Ben, is the discoverer of hearts, and I feel a sweet con- 
fidence that he will knit ours yet more closely together. 

I believe my lot in life is nearly fixed ; a month will 
tell me whether I am to be a minister of Christ, in the 
established church, or out. One of the two I am now 
finally resolved, if it please God, to be. I know my own 
un worthiness ; I feel deeply that I am far from being 
that pure and undefiled temple of the Holy Ghost, that 
a minister of the word of life ought to be ; yet still I 
have an unaccountable hope that the Lord will sanctify 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 83 



.■■ 



my efforts, that he will purify me, and that I shall be- 
come his devoted servant. 

I am at present under afflictions and contentions of 
spirit, heavier than I have yet ever experienced. I 
think at times, I am mad, and destitute of religion. My 
pride is not yet subdued ; the unfavorable review (in 
the Monthly) of my unhappy work, has cut deeper than 
you could have thought; not in a literary point of 
view, but as it affects my respectability. It represents 
me actually as a beggar, going about gathering money 
to put myself at college, when my book is worthless ; 
and this with every appearance of candor. They have 
been sadly misinformed respecting me : this review goes 
before me wherever I turn my steps ; it haunts me in- 
cessantly, and I am persuaded it is an instrument in the 
hands of Satan to drive me to distraction. I must leave 
Nottingham. If the answer of the Elland Society be 
unfavorable, I propose writing to the Marquis of Wel- 
lesley, to offer myself as a student at the academy he 
has instituted at Fort William, in Bengal, and, at the 
proper age, to take orders there. The missionaries at 
that place have done wonders already, and I should, I 
hope, be a valuable laborer in the vineyard. If the 
Marquis take no notice of my application, or do not ac- 
cede to my proposal, I shall place myself in some other 
way of making a meet preparation for the holy office, 
either in the Calvinistic Academy, or in one of the 
Scotch Universities, where I shall be able to live at 
scarcely any expense.* 

* This letter was not seen by the editor till after the prefatory memoir 
was printed.— R.S. 



3 



84 LETTERS OF 



TO MR. R. A- 



Nottinghara, 18th April, 180i. 

My dear Robert, 

I have just received your letter. Most fervently do 
I return thanks to God for this providential opening ; 
it has breathed new animation into me, and my breast 
expands with the prospect of becoming the minister of 
Christ where I most desired it ; but where I almost feared 
all probability of success was nearly at an end. Indeed, 
I had begun to turn my thoughts to the dissenters, as 
people of whom I was destined, not by choice, but ne- 
cessity, to become the pastor. Still, although I knew I 
should be happy anywhere, so that I were a profitable 
laborer in the vineyard, I did, by no means, feel that 
calm, that ind. ssribable satisfaction which I do, when 
I look toward that church which I think, in the main, 
formed on the apostolic model, and from which I am 
decidedly of opinion there is no positive ground for dis- 
sent. I return thanks to God for keeping me so long in 
suspense, for I know it has been beneficial to my soul, 
and I feel a considerable trust that the way is now about 
to be made clear, and that my doubts and fears on this 
head will, in due time, be removed. 

Could I be admitted at St. John's, I conclude, from 
what I have heard, that my provision would be ade- 
quate ; not otherwise. From my mother I could de- 
pend on 15Z. or 20Z. a year, if she live, toward college 
expenses, and I could spend the long vacation at home. 
The 20Z. per annum from my brother would suffice for 
clothes, &c, so that if I could procure 20Z. a year more, 
as you seem to think I may, by the kindness of Mr. 
Martyn. I conceive I might, with economy, be supported 
at college ; of this, however, you are the best judge. 

You may conceive how much I feel obliged by Mr. 
Martyn on this head, as well as to you, for your un- 
wearying exertions. Truly, friends have risen up to me 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 85 

in quarters where I could not have expected them, and 
they have been raised, as it were, by the finger of God. 
I have reason, above all men, to be grateful to the 
Father of all mercies for his loving kindness towards 
me ; surely no one can have had more experience of the 
fatherly concern with which God watches over, protects, 
and succors his chosen seed, than I have had ; and 
surely none could have less expected such a manifesta- 
tion of his grace, and none could have less merited its 

continuance. 

* * * * 

In pursuance of your injunction, I shall lay aside 
Grotius, and take up Cicero and Livy, or Tacitus. In 
Greek, I must rest contented for the ensuing fourteen 
days with the Testament ; I shall then have conquered 
the Gospels, and, if things go on smoothly, the Acts. I 
shall then read Homer, and perhaps Plato's Phsedon, 
which I lately picked up at a stall. My classical knowl- 
edge is very superficial ; it has very little depth or solid- 
ity ; but I have really so small a portion of leisure, that 
I wonder at the progress I do make. I believe I must 
copy the old divines, in rising at four o'clock ; for my 
evenings are so much taken up with visiting the sick, 
and with young men who come for religious conversa- 
tion, that there is but little time for study. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

Nottingham, 24th April, 1804. 

My dear Ben, 

Truly I am grieved, that whenever I undertake to 
be the messenger of glad tidings, I should frustrate my 
own design, and communicate to my good intelligence 
a taint of sadness, as it were by contagion. Most joy- 
fully did I sit down to write my last, as I knew I had 



86 LETTERS OF 



wherewith to administer comfort to you ; and yet, after 
all, I find that by gloomy anticipations, I have con- 
verted my balsam into bitterness, and have by no 
means imparted that unmixed pleasure which I wished 
to do. 

Forebodings and dismal calculations are, 1 am con- 
vinced, very useless, and I think very pernicious specu- 
lations — "Sufficient for the day is the evil theieof." 
And yet how apt are we, when imminent trials molest 
us, to increase the burthen by melancholy ruminations 
on future evils ! — evils which exist only in our own im- 
aginations — and which, should they be realized, will 
certainly arrive in time to oppress us sufficiently, with- 
out our adding to their existence by previous apprehen- 
sion, and thus voluntarily incurring the penalty of mis- 
fortunes yet in prospective, and trials yet unborn. Let 
us guard then, I beseech you, against these ungrateful 
divinations into the womb of futurity — we know our 
affairs are in the hands of one who has wisdom to do 
for us beyond our narrow prudence, and we cannot, by 
taking thought, avoid any afflictive dispensation which 
Grod's providence may have in store for us. Let us 
therefore enjoy with thankfulness the present sunshine 
without adverting to the coming storm. Few and tran- 
sitory are the intervals of calm and settled day with 
which we are cheered in the tempestuous voyage of life ; 
we ought therefore, to enjoy them, while they last, with 
unmixed delight, and not turn the blessing into a curse, 
by lamenting that it cannot endure without interrup- 
tion. We, my beloved friend, are united in our affec- 
tions by no common bands — bands which I trust are 
too strong to be easily dissevered — yet we know not 
what God may intend with respect to us, nor have we 
any business to inquire — we should rely on the mercy 
of our Father, who is in heaven — and if we are to 
anticipate, should hope the best. I stand self-accused 
therefore for my prurient, and I may say, irreligious 
fears. A prudent foresight, as it may guard us from 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham. 
My dear Neville, 

I sit down with unfeigned pleasure to write, in com- 
pliance with your request, that I would explain to you 
the real doctrines of the church of England, or what is 
the same thing, of the Bible. The subject is most iin- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 87 

many impending dangers, is laudable ; but a morbid 
propensity to seize and brood over future ills, is agon- 
izing, while it is utterly useless, and, therefore, ought to 
be repressed. 

I have received intelligence, since writing the above, 
which nearly settles my future destination. A in- 
forms me that Mr. Martyn, a fellow of St. John's, has 
about 20£. a-year to dispose of, towards keeping a re- 
ligious man at college, and he seems convinced that, if 
my mother allows me 20Z. a-year more, I may live at 
Bt. John's, provided I could gain admittance, which, at 
that college, is difficult, unless you have previously stood 
in the list for a year. Mr. Martyn thinks, if I propose 
myself immediately, I shall get upon the foundation, 
and by this day's post I have transmitted testimonials 
of my classical acquirements. In a few days, therefore, 
I hope to hear that I am on the boards of St. John's. 

Mr. Dash wood has informed me, that he also has re- 
ceived a letter from a gentleman, a magistrate near 
Cambridge, offering tne all the assistance in his power 
towards getting through college, so as there be no obli- 
gation. My way, therefore, is now pretty clear. 

I have just risen from my knees, returning thanks 
to our heavenly Father for this providential opening — 
my heart is quite full. Help me to be grateful to him, 
and pray that I may be a faithful minister of his word. 



88 LETTERS OF 



portant, inasmuch as it affects that part of man which is 
incorruptible, and which must exist forever — his soul. 
When God made the brute creation, he merely embodied 
the dust of the earth, and gave it the power of locomo- 
tion, or of moving about, and of existing in a certain 
sphere. In order to afford mute animals a rule of action, 
by which they might be kept alive, he implanted in them 
certain instijncts, from which they can never depart. 
Such is that of self-preservation, and the selection of 
proper food. But he not only endued man with these 
powers, but he gave him mind, or spirit — a faculty 
which enables him to ruminate on the objects which he 
does not see — to compare impressions — to invent — and 
to feel pleasure and pain, when their causes are either 
gone or past, or lie in the future. Tiiis is what consti- 
tutes the human soul. It is an immaterial essence — no 
one knows what it consists of, or where it resides ; the 
brain and the heart are the organs which it most seems 
to affect ; but it would be absurd to infer therefrom, 
that the material organs of the heart and the brain con- 
stitute the soul, seeing that the impressions cf the mind 
sometimes affect one organ and sometimes the other. 
Thus, when any of the passions — love, hope, fear, pleas- 
ure, or pain, are excited, we feel them at our heart. 
When we discuss a topic of cool reasoning, the process 
is carried on in the brain ; yet both parts are in a greater 
or less degree acted upon on all occasions, and we may 
therefore conclude, that the soul resides in neither indi- 
vidually, but is an immaterial spirit, which occasionally 
impresses the one, and occasionally the other. That 
the soul is immaterial, has been proved to a mathemat- 
ical demonstration. When we strike, Ave lift up our 
arm — when we walk, we protrude our legs alternately 
— but when we think, we move no organ : the reason 
depends on no action of matter, but seems as it were to 
hover over us, to regulate the machine of our bodies, and 
to meditate and speculate on things abstract as well as 
simple, extraneous as well as connected with our indi- 



HENRY KTRKE WHITE. 89 

vidual welfare, without having any bond which can • 
unite it with our gross corporeal bodies. The flesh is 
like the temporary tabernacle which the soul inhabits, 
governs, and regulates ; but as it does not consist in any 
organization of matter our bodies may die, and return 
to the dust ftom whence they were taken, while our 
souls, incorporeal essences — are incapable of death and 
annihilation. The spirit is that portion of God's own 
immortal nature, which he breathed into our clay at 
our birth, and which therefore cannot be destroyed, but 
will continue to exist when its earthly habitation is 
mingled with its parent dust. We must admit, there- 
fore, what all ages and nations, savage as well as civil- 
ized, have acknowledged, that we have souls, arid that 
as they are incorporeal, they do not die with our bodies, 
but are necessarily immortal. The question then natu- 
rally arises, what becomes of them after death ? Here 
man of- his own wisdom must stop: — but God has 
thought fit, in his mercy, to reveal to us in a great 
measure the secret of our natures, and in the Holy 
Scriptures we find a plain and intelligible account of 
the purposes of our existence, and the things we have 
to expect in the world to come. And here I shall just 
remark, that the authenticity and divine inspiration of 
Moses are established beyond a doubt, and that no 
learned man can possibly deny their authority. Over 
all nations, even among the savages of America, cut out 
as it were from the eastern world, there are traditions 
extant of the flood, of Noah, Moses, and other patri- 
archs, by names which come so near the proper ones, 
as to remove all doubt of their identity. You know 
mankind is continually increasing in number ; and con- 
sequently, if you make a calculation backwards, the 
numbers must continue lessening, and lessening, until 
you come to a point where there was only one man. 
Well, according to the most probable calculation, this 
point will be found to be about 5,800 years back, viz., 
the time of the creation, making allowance for the flood. 



90 LETTERS OF 



'Moreover, there are appearances upon the surface of the 
globe, which denote the manner in which it was founded, 
and the process thus developed will be found to agree 
very exactly with the figurative account of Moses. — (Of 
this I shall treat in a subsequent letter.) — Admitting 
then, that the books of the Pentateuch were written by 
divine inspiration, we see laid before us the whole his- 
tory of our race, and, including the Prophets, and the 
New Testament, the whole scheme of our future exist- 
ence :*we learn, in the first place, that Gfod created man 
in a state of perfect happiness, that he was placed in the 
midst of everything that could delight the eye or fasci- 
nate the mind, and that he had only one command im- 
posed upon him, which he was to keep under the pen- 
alty of death. This command God has been pleased to 
cover to our eyes with impenetrable obscurity. Moses, 
in the figurative language of the East, calls it eating the 
fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. But 
this we can understand, that man rebelled against the 
command of His Maker, and plunged himself by that 
crime, from a state of bliss to a state of sorrow, and in 
the end, of death. — By death here is meant, the exclu- 
sion of the soul from future happiness. It followed, 
that if Adam fell from bliss, his posterity must fall, 
for the fruit must be like the parent stock ; and a man 
made as it were dead, must likewise bring forth children 
under the same curse. — Evil cannot beget good. 

But the benign Father of the universe had pity upon 
Adam and his posterity, and knowing the frailty of our 
nature, he did not wish to assume the whole terrors of 
his just vengeance. Still, God is a being who is infi- 
nitely just, as well as infinitely merciful, and therefore 
his decrees are not to be dispensed with, and his offend- 
ed justice must have expiation. The case of mankind 
was deplorable ; — myriads yet unborn were implicated 
by the crime of their common progenitor in general ruin. 
But the mercy of God prevailed, and Jesus Christ, the 
Messias, of whom all ages talked before he came down 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 91 

amongst men, offered himself up as an atonement for 
man's crimes. The Son of God himself, infinite in 
mercy, offered to take up the human form, to undergo 
the severest pains of human life, and the severest pangs 
of death ; he offered to lie under the power of the grave 
for a certain period, and, in a word, to sustain all the 
punishment of our primitive disobedience in the stead 
of man. The atonement was infinite, because God's 
justice in infinite ; and nothing but such an atonement 
could have saved the fallen race. 

The death of Christ then takes away the stain of 
original sin, and gives man at least the power of at- 
taining eternal bliss. Still, our salvation is conditional, 
and we have certain requisitions to comply with ere we 
can be secure of heaven. The next question then is, 
What are the conditions on which we are to be saved ? 
The word of God here comes in again in elucidation of 
our duty ; the chief point insisted upon is, that we 
should keep God's Law contained in the Ten Command- 
ments ; but as the omission or breach of one article of 
the twelve tables is a crime just of as great magnitude 
as the original sin, and entails the penalty on us as 
much as if we had infringed the whole ; God, seeing our 
frailty, provided a means of effecting our salvation, in 
which nothing should be required of us but reliance on 
his truth. God sent the Saviour to bear the weight of 
our sins; he, therefore, requires us to believe implicitly, 
that through his blood we shall be accepted. This is 
the succedaneum which he imposed in lieu of the ob- 
servance of the moral law. Faith ! Believe, and ye 
shall BE saved. — He requires from us to throw our- 
selves upon the Redeemer ; to look for acceptance 
through him alone, to regard ourselves as depraved, 
debased, fallen creatures, who can do nothing worthy 
in his sight, and who only hope for mercy through the 
Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Faith is the founda- 
tion stone : Faith is the superstructure ; Faith is all in 
all. — " By faith are ye saved; by Faith are ye justified. " 



92 LETTERS OF 



How easy, my dear Neville, are the conditions God 
imposes upon us ! lie only commands us to feel the tie 
of common gratitude, to trust in the mediation of his 
Son, and all shall be forgiven us. And shall our pride, 
our deluded imaginations, our false philosophy, inter- 
fere to blind our eyes to the beauties of* so benevolent, 
so benign a system ! — Or shall earthly pleasures engross 
all our thoughts, nor leave space for a care for our souls ! 
— God forbid. As for Faith, if our hearts are hardened, 
and we cannot feel that implicit, that ferv#nt belief, 
which the scripture requires, let us pray to God that he 
will send his Holy Spirit down upon us, that he will en- 
lighten our understanding with the knowledge of that 
Truth which is too vast, too sublime for human under- 
standings, unassisted by Divine Grace, to comprehend. 

I have here drawn a hasty outline of the gospel plan 
of salvation. In a future letter I shall endeavor to nil 
it up. At present I shall only say, think on these 
things ! — They are of moment inconceivable. Read 
your bible, in order to confirm yourself in these sublime 
truths, and pray to God to sanctify to you the instruc- 
tions it contains. At present I would turn your atten- 
tion exclusively to the New Testament. Read also the 
book which accompanies this letter; — it is by the great 
Locke, and will serve to show you what so illustrious a 

philosopher thought of revelation. 

* * * * 



TO MR. R. A- 



Nottingliam, May 7th, 1804. 
Dear Robert, 

You don't know how I long to hear how your decla- 
mation was received, and 'all about it,' as we say in 
these parts. I hope to see it, when I see its author and 
pronouncer. Themistocle , do doubt, received due praise 
from you for his valor and subtlety; but I trust you 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 93 



poured down a torrent of eloquent indignation upon 
the ruling principles of his actions, and the motive of 
his conduct;, while you exalted the mild and unassum- 
ing virtues of his more amiable rival. Tne object of 
Themistocles was the aggrandizement of himself, that of 
Aristides the welfare and prosperity of the state. The one 
endeavored to swell the glory of his country ; the other 
to promote its security, external and internal, foreign 
and domestic. "While you estimated the services which 
Themistocles rendered to the state, in opposition to 
those of Aristides, you of course remembered that the 
former had the largest scope for action, and that he in- 
fluenced his countrymen to fall into all his plans, while 
they banished his competitor, not by his superior wis- 
dom or goodness, but by those intrigues and factious 
artifices which Aristides would have disdained. Them- 
istocles certainly did use bad means to a desirable end : 
and if we may assume it as an axiom, that Providence 
will forward the designs of a good sooner than those of 
a bad man, whatever inequality of abilities there may 
be between the two characters, it will follow that — had 
Athens remained under the guidance of Aristides, it 
would have been better for her. The difference between 
Themistocles and Aristides seems to me to be this : that 
the former was a wise and a fortunate man, and that 
the latter, though he had equal wisdom, had not equal 
good fortune. We may admire the heroic qualities and 
the crafty policy of the one ; but to the temperate and 
disinterested patriotism, the good and virtuous disposi- 
tions of the other, we can alone give the meed of heart- 
felt praise. 

I only mean by this, that we must not infer Themis- 
tocles to have been the better or the greater man, because 
he rendered more essential services to the state than 
Aristides, nor even that his system was the most judi- 
cious, — but only, that by decision of character and by 

good fortune, his measures succeeded best. 
* * * * 






94 LETTERS OF 



The rules of composition are, in my opinion, very 
few. If we have a mature acquaintance with our sub- 
ject, there is little fear of our expressing it as we ought, 
provided we have had some little experience in writing. 
The first thing to be aimed at is perspicuity. That is 
the great point which, once attained, will make all 
other obstacles smooth to us. In order to write per- 
spicuously, we should have a perfect knowledge of the 
topic on which we are about to treat in all its bearings 
and dependencies. We should think well beforehand, 
what will be the clearest method of conveying the drift 
of our design. This is similar to what painters call the 
massing, or getting the effect of the more prominent 
lights and shades by broad dashes of the pencil. When 
our thesis is well arranged in our mind, and we have 
predisposed our arguments, reasonings, and illustra- 
tions, so as they shall all conduce to the object in view, 
in regular sequence and gradation, we may sit down 
and express our ideas in as clear a manner as we can, 
always using such words as are most suited to our pur- 
pose ; and when two modes of expression, equally lumi- 
nous, present themselves, selecting that which is the 
most harmonious and elegant. 

It sometimes happens that writers, in aiming at per- 
spicuity, overreach themselves by employing too many 
words, and perplex the mind by a multiplicity of illus- 
trations. This is a very fatal error. Circumlocution 
seldom conduces to plainness ; and you may take it as 
a maxim, that when once an idea is clearly expressed, 
every additional stroke will only confuse the mind and 
diminish the effect. 

When you have once learned to express yourself with 
clearness and propriety, you will soon arrive at ele- 
gance. Everything else, in fact, will follow as of course. 
But I warn you not to invert the order of things, and 
be paying your addresses to the Graces, when you ought 
to be studying perspicuity. Young writers, in general, 
are too solicitous to round off their periods and regulate 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 95 

the cadences of their style. Hence the feeble pleonasms 
and idle repetitions which deform their pages. If you 
would have your compositions vigorous and masculine 
in their tone, let every word tell ; and when you de- 
tect yourself polishing off a sentence with expletives, re- 
gard yourself in exactly the same predicament with a 
poet who should eke out the measure of his verses with 
" titum, titum, tee, Sir." 
So much for style 



TO MR. R. A- — . 

Nottingham, 9th May, 1804. 

My dear Friend, 

* * * * 

I have not spoken as yet to Messrs. Coldham and En- 
field. Your injunction to suspend so doing has left me 
in a state of mind, which, I think, I am blameable for 
indulging, but which is indescribably painful. I had no 
sleep last night, partly from anxiety, and partly from 
the effects of a low fever, which has preyed on my 
nerves for the last six or seven days. I am afraid, 
Robert, my religion is very superficial. I ought not to 
feel this distrust of God's providence. Should I now be 
prevented from going to College, I shall regard it as a 
just punishment for my want of faith. 

I conclude Mr. Martyn has failed in procuring the 

aid he expected. Is it so ? 

* * * * 

On these contingencies, Robert, you must know from 
my peculiar situation I shall never be able to get to 
College. My mother, at all times averse, has lately 
been pressed by one of the Deacons of Castlegate Meet- 
ing, to prevail on me to go to Dr. Williams. This idea 
now fills her head* and she would feel no small degree 



96 LETTERS OF 



of pleasure in the failure of my resources for College. 
Besides this, her natural anxiety for my welfare will 
never allow her to permit me to go to the University 
depending almost entirely on herself, knowing not only 
the inadequacy, but the great uncertainty, of her aid. 
Coldham and Enfield must likewise be satisfied that my 
way is clear : I tremble, I almost despair. A variety of 
contending emotions, which I cannot particularize, agi- 
tate my mind. I tremble lest I should have mistaken 
my call : these are solemn warnings : but no — I cannot 
entertain the thought. To the ministry I am devoted, I 
believe, by God ; in what way must be left to his Prov- 
idence. 

* * * * 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, June, 1804. 

Dear Neville 

In answer to your question, whether the Sizars have 
any duties to perform, I answer no. Somebody, per- 
haps, has been hinting that there are servile offices to 
be performed by Sizars. It is a common opinion, but 
perfectly erroneous. The Oxford Servitors, I believe, 
have many unpleasant duties ; but the Sizars at Cam- 
bridge only differ from the rest in name. 
* * * * 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

Nottingham, June loth, 1804. 

My dear Ben, 

I do not sit down to write you a long letter, for I 
have been too much exhausted with mathematics to 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 97 



"T" 



have much vigor of mind left ; my lines will therefore 
be wider than they are wont to be, and I shall, for once, 
be obliged to diffuse a little matter over a broad surface. 
For a consolatory letter I trust you have little need, as 
by this time you have no doubt learned to meet with 
calmness, those temporary privations and inconveni- 
ences which, in this life, we must expect, and therefore 
should be prepared to encounter. 

* * * * 

This is true — this is Christian philosophy : it is a 
philosophy in which we must all, sooner or later, be in- 
stituted, and which, if you steadfastly persist in seeking, 
I am sure God will assist you to your manifest comfort 
and peace. 

There are sorrows, and there are misfortunes, which 
bow down the spirit beyond the aid of all human comfort. 
Of these, I know, my dear Ben, you have had more 
than common experience ; but while the cup of life does 
overflow with draughts of such extreme asperity, we 
ought to fortify ourselves against lesser evils, as unim- 
portant to man, who has much heavier woes to expect, 
and to the Christian, whose joys are laid beyond the 
verge of mortal existence. There are afflictions, there 
are privations, where death, and hopes irrecoverably 
blasted, leave no prospect of retrieval ; when I would no 
more say to the mourner, " Man, wherefore weepest 
thou ? " than I would ask the winds why they blew, or 
the tempest why it raged. Sorrows like these are sa- 
cred : but the inferior troubles of partial separation, 
vexatious occupation, and opposing current of human 
affairs, are such as ought not, at least immoderately, 
to affect a Christian ; but rather ought to be contem- 
plated as the necessary accidents of life, and disre- 
garded while their pains are most sensibly felt. 

Do not think, I beseech you, my dear Ben, that I 
wish to represent your sorrows as light or trivial ; I 
know they are not light ; I know they are not trivial ; 
but I wish to induce you sum up the man within you, 

7 



98 LETTERS OF 



and while those unhappy troubles, which you cannot 
alleviate, must continue to torment you, I would exhort 
you to rise superior to the crosses of life, and show 
yourself a genuine disciple of Jesus Christ, in the endu- 
rance of evil without repining, or unavailable lamenta- 
tions. 

Blest as you are with the good testimony of an ap- 
proving conscience, and happy in an intimate com- 
munion with the all-pure and all-merciful God, these 
trifling concerns ought not to molest you; nay, were 
the tide of adversity to turn strong against you, even 
were your friends to forsake you, and abject poverty to 
stare you in the face, you ought to be abundantly thank 
ful to God for his mercies to you ; you ought to con- 
sider yourself still as rich ; yea, to look around you, and 
say I am far happier than the sons of men. 

This is a system of philosophy which, for myself, I 
shall not only preach, but practise. We are here for 
nobler purposes than to waste the fleeting moments of 
our lives in lamentations and wailings over troubles 
which, in their widest extent, do but affect the present 
state, and which, perhaps, only regard our personal 
ease and prosperity. Make me an outcast — a beggar : 
place me a bare-footed pilgrim on the top of the Alps or 
the Pyrenees, and I should have wherewithal to sustain 
the spirit within me, in the reflection that all this was 
but as for a moment, and that a period would come, 
when wrong, and injury, and trouble should be no 
more. Are we to be so utterly enslaved by habit and 
association that we shall spend our lives in anxiety and 
bitter care, only that we may find a covering for our 
bodies, or the means of assuaging hunger? for what 
else is an anxiety after the world ? Or are even the fol- 
lowers of Christ themselves to be infected with the in- 
sane, the childish desire of heaping together wealth ? 
Were a man, in the way of making a large fortune, to 
take up his hat and stick, and say, " I am useless here, 
and unhappy ; I will go and abide with the Gentoo or 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 99 

the Paraguay, where I shall be happy and useful," he 
would be laughed at ; but I say he would prove himself 
a more reasonable and virtuous man, than him who 
binds himself down to a business which he dislikes, be- 
cause it would be accounted strange, or foolish, to 
abandon so good a concern, and who heaps up wealth, 
for which he has little relish, because the world accounts 
it policy. 

I will refrain from pursuing this tone of reasoning ; I 
know the weakness of human nature, and I know that 
we may argue with a deal of force, to show the folly of 
grief, when we ourselves are its passive victims. But 
whether strength of mind prevail with you, or whether 
you still indulge in melancholy bodings and repinings, I 
am still your friend, nay, your sympathizing friend. 
Hard and callous and "unfeeling" as I may seem, 1 
have a heart for my ever dear Benjamin. 

Henry Kirke White. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Wilford, near Nottingham, 1804. 

Dear Neville, 

I now write to you from a little cottage at Wilford, 
where I have taken a room for a fortnight, as well for 
the benefit of my health, as for the advantage of unin- 
terrupted study. I live in a homely house, in a homely 
style, but am well occupied, and perfectly at my ease. 

And now, my dear brother, I must sincerely beg par- 
don for all those manifold neglects, of which I cannot 
but accuse myself towards you. When I recollect in- 
numerable requests in your letters which I have not 
noticed, and many inquiries I have not satisfied, I al- 
most feel afraid that you will imagine I no longer 
regard your letters with brotherly fondness, and that 
you will, cease to exercise towards me your wonted con- 



ioo LETTERS OF 



fidence and friendship. Indeed, you may take my word, 
they have arisen from my peculiar circumstances, and 
not from any unconcern or disregard of your wishes. I 
am now bringing my affairs (laugh not at the word) 
into some regularity, after all the hurry and confusion 
in which they have been plunged, by the distraction of 
mind attending my publication, and the projected 
change of my destination in life. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Wilford, near Nottingham, 1804. 

Dear Neville, 

I have run very much on the wrong side of the post 
here ; for having sent copies round to such persons as 
had given me in their names as subscribers, with com- 
pliments, they have placed them to the account of 
presents ! 

* * * * 

And now, my dear Neville, I must give you the most 
ingenious specimen of the invention of petty envy you 
perhaps ever heard of. When Addison produced 
" Cato," it was currently received, that he had bought 
it of a vicar for 401. The Nottingham gentry, knowing 
me too poor to buy my poems, thought they could do 
no better than place it to the account of famiiy affec- 
tion, and lo ! Mrs. Smith is become the sole author, who 
has made use of her brother's name as a feint ! I heard 
of this report first covertly ; it was said that Mrs. Smith 
was the principal writer : next it was said that I was 
the author of one of the inferior smaller pieces only, 
(" My Study; ") and lastly, on mentioning the circum- 
stances to Mr. A , he confessed that he had heard 

several times that " my sister was the sole quill-driver 
of the family, and that Master Henry, in particular, was 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. IOI 

rather shallow," but that he had refrained from telling 
me, because he thought it would vex me. Now as to the 
vexing me, it only has afforded me a hearty laugh. I 
sent my compliments to one great lady, whom I heard 
propagating this ridiculous report, and congratulated 
her on" her ingenuity, telling her, as a great secret, that 
neither my sister or myself had any claim to any of the 
Poems, for the right author was the Great Mogul's cou- 
sin german. The best part of the story is, that my 
good friend, Benjamin Maddock, found means to get 
me to write verses extempore, to prove whether I could 
tag rhymes or not, which, it seems, he doubted. 
* * * * 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

Nottingham, 7th July, 1804. 
My dear Bejs - , 

3$t -JC ■Sp «{S 

The real wants of life are few ; the support of the 
body, simply, is no expensive matter ; and as we are 
not mad upon silk and satins, the covering of it will not 
be more costly. The only superfluity I should covet 
would be books ) but I have learned how to abridge 
that pleasure ; and having sold the flower of my library 
for the amazing sum of six guineas, I mean to try 
whether meditation will not supply the place of general 
reading, and probably, by the time I am poor and 
needy, I shall look upon a large library like a fashion- 
able wardrobe, goodly and pleasant, but as to the real 
utility, indifferent. 

So much for Stoicism, and now for Monachism — I 
shall never, never marry ! It cannot, must not be. As 
to affections, mine are already engaged as much as they 
will ever be, and this is one reason why I believe my 
life will be a life of celibacy. I pray to Grod that it may 



102 LETTERS OF 



be so, and that I may be happy in that state. I love too 
ardently to make love innocent, and therefore I say fare- 
well to it. Besides, I have another inducement, I can- 
not introduce a woman into poverty for my love's sake, 
nor could I well bear to see such a one as I must marry 
struggling with narrow circumstances, and sighing for 
the fortunes of her children. — No, I say, forbear ! and 
may the example of St. Gregory of Naz and St. Basil sup- 
port me. 

All friends are well, except your humble scribe, who 
has got a little too much into his old way since your 
departure. Studying, and musing, and dreaming of 
everything but his health ; still amid all his studyings, 
musings and dreams, 

Your true friend and brother, 

H. K. White. 



TO THE EDITOR. 

Nottingham, July 9th, 1804. 

V •!• "I* *f* 

I can now), inform you, that I have reason to believe 
my way through college is clear before me. From what 
source I know not ; but through the hands of Mr. 
Simeon I am provided with 30Z. per annum ; and while 
things go on so prosperously as they do now, I can com- 
mand 201. or 30Z. more from my friends, and this, in all 
probability, until I take my degree. The friends to 
whom I allude are my mother and brother. 

My mother has, for these five years past, kept a board- 
ing school in Nottingham ; and, so long as her school 
continues in its present state, she can supply me with 
15Z. or 201. per annum, without inconvenience ; but 
should she die (and her health is, I fear, but infirm), 
that resource will altogether fail. Still, I think, my 
prospect is so good as to preclude any anxiety on my 
part ; and perhaps my income will be more than ade- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 103 

quate to my wants, as I shall be a Sizar of St. John's, 
where the college emoluments are more than commonly- 
large. 

In this situation of my affairs you will perhaps agree 
with me in thinking, that a subscription for a volume of 
poems will not be necessary ; and certainly, that meas- 
ure is one which will be better avoided, if it may be. I 
have lately looked over what poems I have by me in 
manuscript, and find them more numerous than I ex- 
pected ; but many of them would .perhaps be styled 
mopish, and mawkish, and even misanthropic, in the 
language of the world ; though from the latter senti- 
ment, I am sure I can say, no one is more opposite than 
I am. These poems, therefore, will never see the light, 
as, from a teacher of that word which gives all strength 
to the feeble, more fortitude and Christian philosophy 
may, with justice, be expected than they display. The 
remainder of my verses would not possess any great in- 
terest : mere description is often mere nonsense : and I 
have acquired a strange habit, whenever I do point out 
a train of moral sentiment from the contemplation of a 
picture, to give it a gloomy and querulous cast, when 
there is nothing in the occasion but what ought to in- 
spire joy and gratitude. I have one poem,* however, 
of some length, which I shall preserve ; and I have an- 
other of considerable magnitude in design, but of which 
only a part is written, which I am fairly at a loss whether 
to commit to the flames, or at some future opportunity 
to finish. The subject is the Death of Christ. I have 
no friend whose opinion is at all to be relied on to whom 
I could submit it ; and perhaps, after all, it may be ab- 
solutely worthless. 

With regard to that part of my provision which is 
derived from my unknown friend, it is of course con- 
ditional ; and as it is not a provision for a poet, but for 
a candidate for orders, I believe it is expected, and in- 
deed it has been hinted as a thing advisable, that I 

* Time is probably the poem alluded to. 



104 LETTERS OF 



should barter the Muses for mathematics, and abstain 
from writing verses at least until I take my degree. If 
I find that all my time will be requisite, in order to pre- 
pare for the important office I am destined to fill, I shall 
certainly do my duty, however severely it may cost me ; 
but if I find I may lawfully and conscientiously relax 
myself at intervals with those delightful reveries which 
have hitherto formed the chief pleasure of my life, I 
shall, without scruple, indulge myself in them. 

I know the pursuit of truth is a much more impor- 
tant business than the exercise of the imagination ; and 
amid all the quaintness and stiff method of mathemati- 
cians, I can even discover a source of chaste and exalted 
pleasure. To their severe but salutary discipline I must 
now "subdue the vivid shapings of my youth;" and 
though I shall cast many a fond lingering look to 
Fancy's more alluring paths, yet I shall be repaid by 
the anticipation of days when I may enjoy the sweet 
satisfaction of being useful, in no ordinary degree, to 
my fellow mortals. 



TO MR. SERJEANT ROUGH. 

Nottingham, 24th July, 1804. 



Dear Sir, 



I think Mr. Moore's love poems are infamous, be- 
cause they subvert the first great object of poetry, — the 
encouragement of the virtuous and the noble ; and met- 
amorphose nutritious aliment into poison. I think the 
Muses are degraded when they are made the handmaids 
of sensuality, and the bawds of a brothel. 

Perhaps it may be the opinion of a young man, but 
I think, too, the old system of heroic attachment, with 
all its attendant notions of honor and spotlessness, was, 
in the end, calculated to promote the interests of the 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 105 

human race ; for though it produced a temporary alien- 
ation of mind, perhaps bordering on insanity, yet with 
the very extravagance and madness of the sentiments 
there were inwoven certain imperious principles of virtue 
and generosity, which would probably remain after 
time had evaporated the heat of passion, and sobered 
the luxuriance of a romantic imagination. I think, 
therefore, a man of song is rendering the community a 
service when he displays the ardor of manly affection 
in a pleasing light : but certainly we need no incentives 
to the irregular gratification of our appetites, and I 
should think it a proper punishment for the poet who 
holds forth the allurements of illicit pleasures in amiable 
and seductive colours, should his wife, his sister, or his 
child, fall a victim to the licentiousness he has been in- 
strumental in diffusing. 



TO MR. B. HADDOCK. 

Winteringliam, August 3rd. 1804. 

My dear Ben, 

I am all anxiety to learn the issue of your proposal 
to your father. Surely it will proceed ; surely a plan 
laid out with such fair prospects of happiness to you, as 
well as me, will not be frustrated. Write to me the 
moment you have any information on the subject. 

I think we shall be happy together at Cambridge ; 
and in the ardent pursuit of Christian knowledge, and 
Christian virtue, we shall be doubly united. We were 
before friends ; now, I hope, likely to be still more em- 
phatically so. But I must not anticipate. 

I left Nottingham without seeing my brother Neville, 
who arrived there two days after me. This is a circum- 
stance which I much regret ; but I hope he will come 
this way, when he goes, according to his intention, to a 
watering place. Neville has been a good brother to me, 



J°6 LETTERS OF 



and there are not many things which would give me 
more pleasure than, after so long a separation, to see 
him again. I dare not hope that I shall meet you and 
hi in together, in October, at Nottingham. 

My days flow on here in an even tenor. They are, 
indeed, studious days, for my studies seem to multiply 
on my hands, and I am so much occupied by them that 
I am becoming a mere book-worm running over the 
rules of Greek versification in my walks, instead of ex- 
patiating on the beauties of the surrounding scenery. 
Winteringham is, indeed, now a delightful place ; the 
trees are in full verdure, the crops are bronzing the 
fields, and my former walks are become dry under foot, 
which I have never known them to be before. The 
opening vista, from our church-yard, over the Humber, 
to the hills and receding vales of Yorkshire, assumes a 
thousand new aspects. I sometimes watch it at even- 
ing, when the sun is just gliding the summits of the hills, 
and the lowlands are beginning to take a browner hue. 
The showers partially falling in the distance, while all 
is serene above me ; the swelling sail rapidly falling 
down the river ; and, not least of all, the villages, woods, 
and villas on the opposite bank, sometimes render this 
scene quite enchanting to me ; and it is no contempt- 
ible relaxation, after a man has been puzzling his brains 
over the intricacies of Greek choruses all the day, to 
come out and unbend his mind with careless thought, 
and negligent fancies, while he refreshes his body with 
the fresh air of the country. 

I wish you to have a taste of these pleasures with 
me ; and if ever I should live to be blessed with a quiet 
parsonage, and that great object of my ambition, a 
garden, I have no doubt but we shall be, for some short 
intervals at least, two quiet contented bodies. These 
will be our relaxations ; our business will be of a nobler 
kind. Let us vigilantly fortify ourselves against the 
exigencies of the serious appointment we are, with God's 
blessing, to fulfil ; and if we go into the church pre- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 107 

pared to do our duty, there is every reasonable prospect 
that our labors will be blessed, and that we shall be 
blessed in them. As your habits generally have been 
averse to what is called close application, it will be too 
much for your strength, as well as unadvisable in other 
points of view, to study very intensely ; but regularly 
you may, and must read ; and depend upon it, a man 
will work more wonders by stated and constant appli- 
cation, than by unnatural and forced endeavors. 



TO MR. B. HADDOCK. 

Nottingham, September, 1804. 

My bear Beiv, 

By the time you will open this letter, we shall have 
parted, God only knows whether ever to meet again. 
The chances and casualities of human life are such as 
to render it always questionable whether three months 
may not separate us forever from an absent friend. 
* * * * 

For my part, I shall feel a vacuum when you are 
gone, which will not easily be filled up. I shall miss 
my only intimate friend — the companion of my walks — 
the interrupter of my evenin^studies. I shall return, in 
a great measure, to my old solitary habits. I cannot 

associate with , nor yet with ; has no place 

in my affections, though he has in my esteem. It was 
to you alone I looked as my adopted brother, and (al- 
though for reasons you may hereafter learn, I have not 
made you my perfect confidant) my comforter. — Heu 
mihi Amice Vale, longum Vale ! I hope you will some- 
times think of me, and give me a portion in your 
prayers. 



10S LETTERS OF 



Perhaps it may be that I am not formed for friend- 
ship, that I expect more than can ever be found. Time 
will tutor me : I am a singular being, under a common 
outside. I am a profound dissembler of my inward feel- 
ings, and necessity has taught me the art. I am long 
before 1 can unbosom to a friend, yet I think I am sin 
cere in my friendship : you must not attribute this to 
any suspiciousness of nature, but must consider that I 
lived seventeen years my own confidant, my own friend, 
full of projects and strange thoughts, and confiding them 
to no one. I am habitually reserved, and habitually 
cautious in letting it be seen that I hide anything. 
Towards you I would fain conquer these habits, and 
this is one step towards effecting the conquest. 

I am not well, Ben, to-night, as my hand-writing 
and style will show ; I have rambled on, however, to 
some length ; my letter may serve to beguile a few mo- 
ments on your way. I must say good-by to you, and 
may God bless you, and preserve you, and be your 
guide and director forever. Remember he is always 
with you ; remember that in him you have a comforter 
in every gloom. In your wakeful nights, when you 
have not me to talk to, his ear will be bent down to 
your pillow ; what better bosom friend has a man than 
the merciful and benignant Father of all? Happy, 
thrice happy, are you in the privilege of his grace and 
acceptance. 

Dear Ben, 
I am your true friend, 

H. K. White. 



Dear Kirke, 



TO MR. K. SWANN. 

High Pavement, October 4tth, 1804. 



# # $ * 

For your kind and very valuable present, I know 
not how to thank you. The Archbishop* has long been 

* Tillotsou. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 109 



TO MR. JOHN CHARLESWORTII. 

Winteriugham, 1804. 

* Amice Dilecte, 

Puderet me infrequently nostrarum liter arum, nisi 
hoc ex te pendere sentirem. Epistolas a te missas non 
prius accepi quam kalendis Decembris — res mini acerba, 
nihilominus ad ferendum levior, dum me non tibi ex 
ammo prorsus excidisse satis exploratum est. 

Gasivus sum, e litteris tuis amico Roberto dicatis, 
cum audirem te operam et dedisse et daturum ad Grse- 
cam linguam etiamnum excolendam cum viro omni 

* This letter is not to be considered as a specimen of Henry's Latinity. 
It was written when he was only beginning those classical studies in 
which he afterwards made such progress. 



one of my most favorite divines ; and a complete set of 
his sermons really "sets me icp." I hope I am able to 
appreciate the merits of such a collection, and I shall 
always value them apart from their merit, as a memento 
of friendship. 

I hope that, when our correspondence begins, it will 
neither be lax nor uninteresting ; and that, on both 
sides, it may be productive of something more than mere 
amusement. 

While we each strive to become wiser in those things 
wherein true wisdom is alone to be found, we may mu- 
tually contribute to each other's success, by the com- 
munication of our thoughts : and that we may both 
become proficients in that amiable philosophy which 
makes us happier by rendering us better ; that philos- 
ophy which alone makes us wise unto salvation, is the 
prayer of, 

Dear Kirke, 
Your sincere friend, 

Henry Kirke White. 



HO LETTERS OF 



doctrina erudito. — Satis scio te, illo duce, virum doctis- 
simum et in optimarum artium studiis exquisitissimuin 
futurum esse : haud tamen his facultatibus con- 
tentum, sed altiora petentem, nempe salutem huuiani 
generis et sancta verbi divini arcana. 

Vix jam, amice ! recreor e morbo, a quo graviter 
aegrotavi : vix jam incipio membra languore confectain 
diem apertam trahere. Tactus arida manu febris spati- 
osas trivi noctes lacrymis et gemitu. Vidi cum in con- 
spectu mortis collocatus fuerim, vidi omnia clariora 
facta, intellexi me non fidem Christi satis servasse, non 
ut famulum Dei fideliter vitam egisse. JEgritudo multa 
prius celata patefacit. Hoc ipse sensi et omnes, sint 
sane religiosi sint boni, idem sentient. Sed ego prascipue 
causam habui cur me afflixerim et summisso animo ad 
pedem crucis abjecerim. Imo vero et lacrymas copiose 
effudi et interdum consolatio Sancti Spiritus turbinem 
anima placavit. Utinam vestigium hujus periculi 
semper in animo retineam ! 

Non dubito quin tibi gratum erit audire de moribus 
et studiis nostris. Preceptor nobis, nomine Grainger, 
non e collegio educatus fuit, attamen doctrina haud 
mediocris est, pietate eximius. Hypodidasealus fuit 
in schola viri istius docti etadmodum venerandi Josephi 
Milner, qui eum dilexit atque honoravit. Mores jucundi 
et faciles sunt, urbanitate ac lepore suaviter conditi, 
quanquam interdum in vultu tristis severitas inest. 
Erga bonos mansuetus, malis se durior gerit. — iEque 
fere est Pastor diligens, vir egregius, et praeceptor bonus.* 
Cum isthoc legimus apud Grsecos, Homerum et Demos- 
thenem et Sanctas Scripturas, apud Latinos Virgilium, 
Ciceronem et aliquando in ludo Terentium. Scribimus 
etiam Latine, et constructionis et eleganti« gratia ; nihil- 
ominus (hac epistola teste) non opus est dicendi tibi 
quam paululum ego ipse proficio. In scribendo Latine, 
praeter consuetudinem in lingua Anglicana, sum lentus, 
piger, ineptus. Verba stillant heu quam otiose, et 
quum tandem visa sint quam inelegantia ! Spero 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. ill 

tamen usu atque animo diligenter adhibendo deinde 
Latinis ser'monibus aliquam adipisci facilitatem, nunc 
fere oportet me content um esse cupire et laborare, 
paululum potiundo, magna moliendo. 

Intelligis, procul dubio, nos vicum incolere Winter- 
ing-hamiensis, ripis situm Humberi flnminis, sed non- 
dum forsan sentias locum esse agrestem, fluviis, collibus, 
arvis, omni decore pervenustum. Domus nostra Temple? 
Dei adjacet ; a tergo sunt dulces horti et terrenus agger 
arboribus crebre septus quo deambulare solemus. Cir- 
cumcirca sunt rurales pagi qui bus ssepe cum otium 
agamus, post prandium imus. Est villa, nomine Whit- 
tonia, ubi a celsa rupe videre potes flumen Trentiivasto 
Humbero influentem, et paulo altius Oosem flumen. 

Infra sub opaca saxa fons est cui potestas inest in 
lapidem materias alienas convertendi ; ab altissimarupe 
labitur in litus, muschum, conchas et fragiliores, ramos 
arborum in lapidem transmutans. In prospectu domus 
montes Eboracenses surgunt trans Humbemm siti, syl- 
vis et villis stipati, nunc solis radiis ridentes, nunc hor- 
ridi nimbis ac procellis. Vela navium ventis impleta 
ante fenestras satis longo intervallo prolabuntur : dum 
supra in aere procelso greges anserum vastae longo cla- 
more volitant. Ssepe in animo revolvo verba ista 
Homeri : 

wctt' opvi^tov nereyvuiv e8vea ttoAAo. 
Xrjvwi/ i) yepavujv, i] KVKVdJi', 8ov\i)(o8eipa)i>, 

Acrt'co eV yeLp.uivi Kavarpiov ol/x^l pesdpa. 
evBa. ko.1 ev8a ttot<0vto.l ayaWofj-tvot nTspvyecr&i 
K\ayyrj86v npoKa9t.£6vTa>i' t <rp.apayel &e re AeijuaSe, 
fi? Tu>v iOuea noWa veuu and kclC Kkiaiduiv 

Es Trt&iov npoxeovro ~5.K.ap:avbpiov, &c. 

3fc if* ^ ifc 

Vale. Dum vitales auras carpaiu, 

Tuus, 

11. K. White. 



112 LETTERS OF 



TO MR. K. SWANN. 

• Winteringham, October 20lh, 1804. 

Dear Kirke, 

We are safely arrived, and comfortably settled, in 
the parsonage of Winteringham. The house is most 
delightfully situated close by the church, at a distance 
from the village, and with delightful gardens behind, 
and the Humber before. The family is very agreeable, 
and the style in which we live is very superior. Our 
tutor is not only a learned man, but the best pastor and 
most pleasing domestic man I ever met with . You will 
be glad to hear we are thus charmingly situated. I 
have reason to thank God for his goodness in leading 
me to so peaceful and happy a situation. 

The year which now lies before me, I shall, with the 
blessing of God, if I am spared, employ in very import- 
ant pursuits ; and I trust that I shall come away not 
only a wiser but a better man. I have here nothing to 
interrupt me — no noise — no society to disturb, or avo- 
cations to call me off, and if I do not make considerable 
improvements, I do not know when I shall. 

We have each our several duties to perform ; and 
though God has been pleased to place us in very dif- 
ferent walks of life, yet we may mutually assist each 
other by counsel, by admonition, and by prayer. My 
calling is of a nature the most arduous and awful ; I 
need every assistance from above, and from my com- 
panions in the flesh ; and no advice will ever be es- 
teemed lightly by me, which proceeds from a servant of 
God, however trifling, or however ill-expressed. If your 
immediate avocations be less momentous, and less con- 
nected with the world to come, your duty is not the less 
certain, or the more lightly to be attended to— you are 
placed in a situation wherein God expects from you ac- 
cording to your powers, as well as from me in mine : 
and there are various dark and occult temptations, of 



i 

HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 113 



which you are little aware, but into which you may easily 
and imperceptibly fall, unless upheld by the arm of Al- 
mighty God. You stand in need, therefore, to exercise a 
constant reliance on the Holy Spirit, and its influences, 
and to watch narrowly your own heart, that it conceive 
no secret sin ; for although your situation be not so dan- 
gerous, nor your duties so difficult, yet, as the masks 
which Satan assumes are various, you may still find cause 
for spiritual fear and sorrow, and occasion for trembling, 
lest you should not have exercised your talents in propor- 
tion to their extent. It is a valuable observation, that 
there is no resting-place in the spiritual progress — we 
must either go backward or forward, and when we are 
at a loss to know whether our motion be on wardor retro- 
grade, we may rest assured, that there is something want- 
ing which must be supplied — some evil yet lurking in 
the heart, or some duty slightly performed. 

You remember I heard Mr. , on the night previous 

to my departure ; I did not say much on his manner, 
but I thought it neat, and the sermon far better than I 
expected : but I must not be understood to approve al- 
together of Mr. 's preaching. I think, in particular, 

he has one great fault, that is elegance — he is not suf- 
ficiently plain. Remember, we do not mount the pulpit 
to say fine things, or eloquent things ; we have there to 
proclaim the good tidings of salvation to fallen man ; to 
point out the way of eternal life ; to exhort, to cheer, 
and to support the suffering sinner : these are the glori- 
ous topics upon which we have to enlarge — and will 
these permit the tricks of oratory, or the studied beauties 
of eloquence ? Shall truths and counsels like these be 
couched in terms which the poor and ignorant cannot 
comprehend? — Let aD eloquent preachers beware, lest 
they fill any man's ear with sounding words, when they 
should be feeding his soul with the bread of everlasting 
life! Let them fear, lest, instead of honoring God, 
they honor themselves !^ If any man ascend the pulpit 
with the intention of uttering a fine thing, he is com- 

8 



114 LETTERS OF 



mitting a deadly sin. Remember, however, that there 
is a medium, and that vulgarity and meanness are cau- 
tiously to be shunned : but while we speak with pro- 
priety and chastity, we cannot be too familiar or too 
plain. I do not intend to apply these remarks to Mr. 

individually, but to the manner of preaching here 

alluded to. If his manner be such as I have here de- 
scribed, the observations will also fit ; but, if it be other- 
wise, the remarks refer not to him, but to the style rep- 
robated. 

* * * * 

I recommend to you, always before you begin to 
study, to pray to God to enlighten your understanding, 
and give you grace to behold all things through the 
medium of religion. This was always the practice in 
the old Universities, and, I believe, is the only way to 
profit by learning. 

I can now only say a few words to you, since our reg- 
ular hour of retiring fast approaches. I hope you are 
making progress in spiritual things, proportion ably to 
your opportunities, and that you are sedulously en- 
deavoring not only to secure your own acceptation, but 
to impart the light of truth to those around you who 
still remain in darkness. 

Pray let me hear from you at your convenience, and 
my brother will forward the letter ; and believe me 

My dear Kirke, 
Your friend and fellow-traveller in the 

Tearful sojourn of life, 
H. K. White. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

Winteringham, Dec. 16th, 1804. 

My Dear Mother, 

Since I wrote to you last I have been rather ill, hav- 
ing caught cold, which brought on a slight fever. 
Thanks to excellent nursing, I am now pretty much re- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1 15 



covered, and only want strength to be perfectly re-estab- 
lished. Mr. Grainger is himself a very good physician, 
but when I grew worse, he deemed it necessary to send 
for a medical gentleman from Barton ; so that, in addi- 
tion to my illness, I expect an apothecary's bill. This, 
however, will not be a very long one, as Mr. Grainger 
has chiefly supplied me with drugs. It is judged ab- 
solutely necessary that I should take wine, and that I 
should ride. It is with very great reluctance that I agree 
to incur these additional expenses, and I shall endeavor 
to cut them off as soon as possible. Mr. and Mrs. Grain- 
ger have behaved like parents to me since I have been ill: 
four and five times in the night has Mr. G. come to see 
me ; and had 1 been at home, I could not have been 
treated with more tenderness and care. Mrs. Grainger 
has insisted on my drinking their wine, and was very an- 
gry when I made scruples ; but I cannot let them be at 
all this additional expense — in some way or other 1 must 
pay them, as the sum I now give, considering the mode in 
which we are accommodated, is very trifling. Mr. Grain- 
ger does not keep a horse, so that I shall be obliged to 
hire one ; but there will be no occasion for this for any 
length of time, as my strength seems to return as rapidly 
as it was rapidly reduced. Don't make yourself in the 
least uneasy about this, I pray, as I am quite recovered, 
and not at all apprehensive of any consequences. I 
have no cough, nor any symptom which might indicate 
an affection of the lungs. I read very little at present. 
I thought it necessary to write to you on this subject 
now, as I feared you might have an exaggerated ac- 
count from Mr. Almond's friends, and alarm yourself. 



Ii6 LETTERS OF 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Wintering-ham, Dec 27, 1804. 

My Dear Brother, 

I have been very much distressed at the receipt of 
your letter, accompanied by one from my mother, one 
from my sister, and from Mr- Dashwood, and Kirke 
Svvann, all on the same subject ; and, greatly as I feel 
for all the kindness and affection which has prompted 
these remonstrances, I am quite harassed with the idea 

!that you should not have taken my letter as a plain ac- 
count of my illness, without any wish to hide from you 
that I had been ill somewhat seriously, but that I was 
indeed better. 

I can now assure you, that I am perfectly recovered, 
and am as well as I have been for some time past. My 
sickness was merely a slight fever, rather of a nervous 
kind, brought on by a cold, and soon yielded to the 
proper treatment. I do assure you, simply and plainly, 

(that I am now as well as ever. 
With regard to study, I do assure you that Mr. 
Grainger will not suffer us to study at all hard ; our 
work at present is mere play. I am always in bed at 
ten o'clock, and take two walks in the day, besides 

(riding, when the weather will permit, 
Under these circumstances, my dear brother may set 
his mind perfectly, at ease. Even change of air some- 
times occasions violent attacks, but they leave the 
patient better than they found him. 

I still continue to drink wine, though I am convinced 
there is no necessity for it. My appetite is amazingly 
large — much larger than when at Nottingham. 

I shall come to an arrangement with Mr. Grainger 
immediately, and I hope you will not write to him about 
it. If Mr. Eddy, the surgeon, thinks it at all necessary for 
me to do this constantly, I declare to you that I will ; 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1*7 



but remember, if I should form a habit of this now, it 
may be a disadvantage to me when possibly circum- 
stances may render it inconvenient — as when I am at 
college. 

My spirits are completely knocked up by the receipt 
of all the letters I have at one moment received. My 
mother got a gentleman to mention it to Mr. Dash wood, 
and still representing that my illness was occasioned by 
study — a thing than which nothing can be more remote 
from the truth, as I have, from conscientious motives, 
given up hard study until I shall find my health better. 

I cannot write more, as I have the other letters to 
answer. I am going to ride to Barton, expressly to get 
advantage of the post for this day. in order that you 
may no longer give yourself a moment's uneasiness, 
where there is in reality no occasion. 

Give my affectionate love to James, and believe me, 
My dear Neville, 
Your truly affectionate brother, 

H. K. White. 

One thing I had forgotten — you mention my pecuni- 
ary matters — you make me blush when you do so. You 
may rest assured that I have no wants of that kind, nor 
am likely to have at present. Your brotherly love and 
anxiety towards me has sunk deep into my heart ; and 
you may satisfy yourself with this, that whatever is 
necessary for my health shall not be spared, and that 
when I want the means of procuring these, I shall think 
it my duty to tell you so. 



TO HIS BROTHER JAMES. 

Midway between Winteriughara and Hull, 
Jan. llth,\S05. 

Dear James, 

You will not be surprised at the style of this letter, 
when I tell you it is written in the Winteringham 



n8 LETTERS OF 



Packet, on a heap of flour bags, and surrounded by a 
drove of fourteen pigs, who raise the most hideous roar 
every time the boat rolls. I write with a silver pen, and 
with a good deal of shaking, so you may expect very 
bad scribbling. I am now going to Hull, where I have 
a parcel to send to my mother, and I would not lose the 
opportunity of writing. 

I am extremely glad that you are attentive to mat- 
ters of such moment as are those of religion ; and I 
hope you do not relax in your seriousness, but continue 
to pray that God will enable you to walk in the paths 
of righteousness, which alone lead to peace. He alone, 
my dear James, is able to give you a heart to delight in 
his service, and to set at naught the temptations of the 
world. It may seem to you, in the first beginning of 
your Christian progress, that religion wears a very un- 
promising aspect, and that the gayeties of the world are 
indeed very delicious : but I assure you, from what I 
have myself experienced, that the pleasures of piety are 
infinitely more exquisite than those of fashion and of 
sensual pursuits. It is true, they are not so violent or 
so intoxicating (for they consist in one even tenor of 
mind, a lightness of heart, and sober cheerfulness, which 
none but those who have experienced can conceive) ; 
but they leave no sting behind them ; they give pleas- 
ure on reflection, and will soothe the mind in the distant 
prospect. And who can say this of the world or its en- 
joyments ? 

Even those who seem to enter with the most spirit 
into the riotous and gaudy diversions of the world, are 
often known to confess that there is no real satisfaction 
in them ; that their gayety is often forced, when their 
hearts are heavy ; and that they envy those who have 
chosen the more humble but pleasant paths of religion 
and virtue. 

I am not at all particular as to the place of worship 
you may attend, so as it be under a serious preacher, 
and so as you attend regularly. I should think it a very 



HENRY KIRKE WZHTE. 119 

good exercise for you if you were to get a blank paper 
book, and were to write down in it anything which may 
strike you in the sermons you hear on a Sunday ; this 
would improve your style of writing, and teach you to 
think on what you hear. Pray endeavor to carry this 
plan into execution, I am sure you will find it worth 
the trouble. You attend the church now and then, I 
conclude, and if you do, I should wish to direct your 
attention to our admirable liturgy, and avoid, if pos- 
sible, remarking what may seem absurd in the manner 
it is repeated. 

I must not conceal from you that I am very sorry 
you do not attend some eminent minister in the church, 
such as Mr. Cecil, or Mr. Pratt, or Mr. Crowther, in pref- 
erence to the meeting; since I am convinced a man 
runs less danger of being misled or of building on false 
foundations in the establishment than out, and this too 
for plain reasons : dissenters are apt to think they are 
religious, because they are dissenters — " for," argue 
they, " if we had not a regard for religion, why should 
we leave the establishment at all? The very act of 
leaving it shows we have a regard for religion, because 
we manifest an aversion to its abuses." Besides this, at 
the meeting-house you are not likely to hear plain and 
unwelcome truths so honestly told as in the church, where 
the minister is not so dependent on his flock, and the 
prayers are so properly selected, that you will meet with 
petitions calculated for all your wants, bodily and 
spiritual, without being left at the mercy of the minister 
to pr^y for what and in what manner he likes. Re- 
member these are not offered as reasons why you should 
always attend the church, but to put you in mind that 
there are advantages there which you should avail 
yourself of, instead of making invidious comparisons 

between the two institutions. 

* * * * 



120 LETTERS OF 



Dear Ben, 



TO MR. B. HADDOCK. 

Wiiiteringham, Jan. 31st, 1805. 



I have long been convinced of the truth of what you 
say, respecting the effects of close reading on a man's 
mind, in a religious point of view, and I am more and 
more convinced that literature is very rarely the source 
of satisfaction of mind to a Christian. I would wish you 
to steer clear of too abstracted and subtle a mode of think- 
ing and reasoning, and you will so be happier than your 
friend. A relish for books will be a sweet source of 
amusement and a salutary relaxation to you through- 
out life ; but let it not be more than a relish, if you value 
your own peace. I think, however, that you ought to 
strengthen your mind a little with logic, and for this 
purpose 1 would advise you to go through Euclid with 
sedulous and serious attention, and likewise to read 
Duncan through. You are too desultory a reader, and 
regard amusement too much ; if you wish your reading 
in good earnest to amuse you, when you are old, as well 
as now in your youth, you will take care to form a taste 
for substantial and sound authors, and will not be the 
less eager to study a work because it requires a little 
labor to understand it. 

After you have read Euclid, and amused yourself 
with Locke's sublime speculations, you will derive much 
pleasure from Butler's Analogy, without exception the 
most unanswerable demonstration of the folly of in- 
fidelity that the world ever saw. 

Books like these will give you more strength of mind, 
and consistent firmness, than either you or I now pos- 
sess ; while, on the other hand, the effeminate Panada 
of Magazines, Tales, and the tribe of penny-catching 
pamphlets, of which desultory readers are so fond, only 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 12 1 

tend to enervate the mind, and incapacitate it for every 

species of manly exertion. 

* * * * 

I continue to be better in health, although the 
weather is a great obstacle to my taking a proper pro- 
portion of exercise. I have had a trip to Hull of late, 

and saw the famous painter R there, with whom I 

had a good deal of talk. He is a pious man and a great 
astronomer ; but in manners and appearance a com- 
plete artist. I rather think he is inclined to Hutchin- 
sonian principles, and entertains no great reverence for 

Sir Isaac Newton. 

* * # # 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

Wiiiteringham, 1st March, 1805. 

My dear Beist, 

* * * * 

I hope and trust that you have at length arrived at 
that happy temperament of disposition, that, although 
you have much cause of sadness within, you are yet 
willing to be amused with the variegated scenes around 
you, and to join, when occasions present themselves, in 
innocent mirth. Thus, in the course of your peregrina- 
tions, occurrences must continually arise, which, to a 
mind willing to make the best of everything, will afford 
amusement of the chastest kind. Men and manners are 
a never-failing source of wonder and surprise, as they 
present themselves in their various places. We may 
very innocently laugh at the brogue of a Somerset peas- 
ant — and I should think that person both cynical and 
surly, who could pass by a group of laughing children, 
without participating in their delight, and joining in 
their laugh. It is a truth most undeniable, and most 
melancholy, that there is too much in human life which 
extorts tears and groans, rather than smiles. This, how- 



122 LETTERS OF 



ever, is equally certain, that our giving way to unre- 
mitting sadness on these accounts, so far from amelior- 
ating the condition of mortality, only adds to the 
aggregate of human misery, and throws a gloom over 
those moments when a ray of light is permitted to visit 
the dark valley of life, and the heart ought to be making 
the best of its fleeting happiness. Landscape, too, ought 
to be a source of delight to you ; fine buildings, objects 
of nature, and a thousand things which it would be 
tedious to name. I should call the man who could sur- 
vey such things as these without being affected with 
pleasure, either a very weak-minded and foolish person, 
or one of no mind at all. To be always sad, and always 
pondering on internal griefs, is what I call utter selfish- 
ness : I would not give two-pence for a being who is 
locked up in his own sufferings, and whose heart can- 
not respond to the exhilarating cry of nature, or rejoice 
because he sees others rejoice. The loud and unanimous 
chirping of the birds on a fine sunny morning, pleases 
me, because I see they are happy : and I should be very 
selfish, did I not participate in their seeming joy. Do 
not, however, suppose that I mean to exclude a man's 
own sorrows from his thoughts, since that is an impos- 
sibility, and, were it possible, would be prejudicial to 
the human heart. I only mean that the whole mind is 
not to be incessantly engrossed with its cares, but with 
cheerful elasticity to bend itself occasionally to circum- 
stances, and give way without hesitation to pleasing 
emotions. To be pleased with little, is one of the great- 
est blessings. 

Sadness is itself sometimes infinitely more pleasing 
than joy ; but this sadness must be of the expansive and 
generous kind, rather referring to mankind at large, 
than the individual \ and this is a feeling not incompat- 
ible with cheerfulness and a contented spirit. There is 
difficulty, however, in setting bounds to a pensive dis- 
position ; I have felt it, and I have felt that I am not 
always adequate to the task. I sailed from H 



ull to 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 123 



Barton the day before yesterday, on a rough and windy 
day, in a vessel filled with a marching regiment of 
soldiers : the band played finely, and I was enjoying the 
many pleasant emotions which the water, sky, winds, 
and musical instruments excited, when my thoughts 
were suddenly called away to more melancholy subjects. 
A girl, genteelly dressed, and with a countenance which, 
for its loveliness, a painter might have copied for Hebe, 
with a loud laugh seized me by the great coat, and asked 
me to lend it her : she was one of those unhappy creat- 
ures who depend on the brutal and licentious for a bit- 
ter livelihood, and was now following in the train of one 
of the officers. I was greatly affected by her appearance 
and situation, and more so by that of another female 
who was with her, and who, with less beauty, haci a wild 
sorrowfulness in her face, which showed she knew her 
situation. This incident, apparently trifling, induced a 
train of reflections, which occupied me fully during a 
walk of six or seven miles to oar parsonage. At first I 
wished that I had fortune to orect an asylum for all the 
miserable and destitute : — and there was a soldier's wife, 
with a wan and hagged face, and a little infant in her 
arms, whom I would also have wished to place in it. I 
then grew out of humor with the world, because it was 
so unfeeling and so miserable, and because there was no 
cure for its miseries ; and I wished for a lodging in the 
wilderness, where I might hear no more of wrongs, 
affliction, or vice : but, after all my speculations, I 
found there was a reason for these things in the Gospel 
of Jesus Christ, and that to those who sought it there 
was also a cure. So I banished my vain meditations, 
and knowing that God's providence is better able to 
direct the affairs of men than our wisdom — I leave them 

in his hands. 

* * * * 



.„..L, J.J I , BBBE 



124 LETTERS OF 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

Winteringham, 5th Feb., 1805. 



Dear Mother, 



The spectacles for my father are, I hope, such as will 
enable him to read with ease, although they are not set 
in silver. If they hurt him through stiffness, I think 
the better way will be to wear them with the two end 
joints shut to, and with a piece of ribbon to go round 
the back of the head, &c. The Romaine's Sermons, and 
the cheap tracts, are books which I thought might be 
useful. You may think I am not yet privileged to make 
presents, since they will in the end come out of your 
pocket ; but I am not in want of cash at present, and 
have reason to believe, from my own calculations, I 
shall not have occasion to call upon you for what I 
know you can so ill spare. I was quite vexed afterwards 
that I did not send you all the volumes of the Cheap 
Repository, as the others, which are the general tracts, 
and such as are more entertaining, would have been 
well adapted to your library. When I next go to Hall, 
I purpose buying the remaining volumes ; and when I 
next have occasion to send a parcel, you will receive 
them. The volume you have now got contains all the 
Sunday reading tracts, and on that account I sent it 
separately. As I have many things to remind me of my 
sister Smith, I thought (though we neither of us need 
such mementos) that she would not be averse to receive 
the sermons of the great and good, though in some re- 
spects singular, Rornaine, at my hands, as what old- 
fashioned people would call a token of a brother's love, 
but what in more courtly phrase is denominated a me- 
mento of affection. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 125 



TO MR. SERJEANT ROUGH. 

Winteringham, 11th Feb., 1805. 

My pear Sir, 

I blush when I look back to the date of your too long 
unanswered letter, and were I not satisfied that the con- 
tents of my sheet of post must always be too unimport- 
ant to need apology, I should now make one. 

The fine and spirited song (song in the noblest sense 
of the word) which you sent me, on the projected inva- 
sion, demands my best thanks. The fervid patriotism 
which animates it, would, I think, find an echo in every 
bosom in England ; and I hope and trust the world has 
not been deprived of so appropriate an exhortation. I 
perceive, however, one thing, which is, that your fire 
has been crampt by the " crambo" of the rhyme, at all 
times a grievous shackle to poets, and yet capable of 
such sweet and expressive modulation, as makes us hug 
our chains, and exult in the hard servitude. My poor 
neglected muse has lain absolutely unnoticed by me for 
the last four months, during which period I have been 
digging in the mines of Scapula for Greek roots ; and, 
instead of drinking, with eager delight, the beauties of 
Virgil, have been cutting and drying his phrases for 
future use. The place where I live is on the banks of 
the Humber ; here no Sicilian river, but rough with 
cold winds, and bordered with killing swamps. What 
with neglect, and what with the climate, so congenial 
to rural meditation, I fear my good Genius, who was 
wont to visit me with nightly visions "in woods and 
brakes, and by the river's marge," is now dying of a 
fen-ague ; and I shall thus probably emerge from my 
retreat, not a hair-brained son of imagination, but a 
sedate black-lettered book-worm, with a head like an 
etymologicon magnum. 

Forgive me this flippancy, in which I am not very 



126 LETTERS OF 



apt to indulge, and let me offer my best wishes that it 
is not with your muse as with mine. Eloquence has al- 
ways been thought akin to poetry : though her efforts 
are not so effectually perpetuated, she is not the less 
honored, or her memory the less carefully preserved. 
Many very plausible hypotheses are contradicted by 
facts, yet I should imagine that the genius which 
prompted your " Conspiracy " would be no common 
basis on which to erect a superstructure of oratorical 
fame. — " Est enim oratori finitimus Poeta, numeris ad- 
strictior paulo, verborum autem licentia liberior, multis 
vero ornandi generibus socius, ac pene par," &c. You, 
no doubt, are well acquainted with this passage in the 
1st Dial. De Orat., so I shall not go on with it ; but I 
encourage a hope, that I shall one day see a living proof 
of the truth of this position in you. Do not quite exclude 
me from a kind of fellow-feeling with you in your oratori- 
cal pursuits, for you know I must make myself a fit herald 
for the important message I am ordained to deliver, and 
I shall bestow some pains to this end. No inducement 
whatever should prevail on me to enter into orders, if I 
were not thoroughly convinced of the truth of the Reli- 
gion I profess, as contained in the New Testament ; 
and I hope that whatever I know to be the truth, I 
shall not hesitate to proclaim, however much it may be 
disliked or despised. The discovery of Truth, it is no- 
torious, ought to be the object of all true philosophy ; 
and the attainment of this end must, to a philosopher, 
be the greatest of all possible blessings. If then a man 
be satisfied that he has arrived at the fountain-head of 
pure Truth, and yet, because the generality of men hold 
different sentiments, dares not avow it, but tacitly gives 
assent to falsehood, he withholds from men what, ac- 
cording to his principles, it is for their good to know — 
he prefers his personal good to Truth — and he proves 
that, whatever he may profess, he is not imbued with 
the spirit of true Philosophy. 

I have some intention of becoming a candidate for 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 127 

Sir William Brown's medals this year ; and if I should, 
it would be a great satisfaction to me to subject my at- 
tempts to so good a classic as I understand you to be. 
In the mean time, you will confer a real favor on me, if 
you will transcribe some of your Latin verses for me, as 
I am anxious to see the general character of modern 
Latin as it is received at Cambridge ; and elegant verses 
always give me great pleasure, in whatever language I 
read them. Such I know yours will be. 
* * * * 

In this remote corner of the world, where we have 
neither books nor booksellers, I am as ignorant of the 
affairs of the literary world as an inhabitant of Siberia. 
Sometimes the newspaper gives me some scanty hints ; 
but, as I do not see a review, I cannot be said to hold 
converse with the Republic. Pray, is the voice of the 
Muses quite suspended in the clang of arms, or do they 
yet sing, though unheeded ? All literary information 
will be to me quite new and interesting ; but do not 
suppose I hope to intrude on your more valuable time 
with these things. When you shall have leisure, I hope 
to hear from you ; and whatever you say, coming from 
you, it cannot fail to interest. 

Believe me, dear Sir, 

Very sincerely, yours, 
ILK. White. 



TO MR. K. SWANN. 

Wintering'ham, 16t7i March, 1805. 



Dear Kirke, 



I was affected by the death of young B . He once 

called upon me with Mr. H , when I was very ill, and 

on that occasion Mr. H said to us both, " Young 

men, I would have you both pack off to Lisbon, for you 
won't last long if you stay here." Mr. was then 



128 LETTERS OF 



about to set out for Hamburgh ; and he told me after- 
wards, that he never expected to see me again, for that 
he thought I was more desperately gone in consump- 
tion than 13 . Yet you see how the good providence 

of God has spared me, and I am yet living, as I trust, to 
serve him with all my strength. Had I died then, I 
should have perished forever ; but I have now hope, 
through the Lord Jesus, that I shall see the day of death 
with joy, and possibly be the means of rescuing others 
from a similar situation. I certainly thought of the 
ministry at first with improper motives, and my views 
of Christianity were for a long time very obscure ; but 
I have, I trust, gradually been growing out of darkness 
into light, and I feel a well-grounded hope, that God 
has sanctified my heart for great and valuable purposes. 
Woe be unto me if I frustrate his designs. 

sfs $C 4 s "P 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Winteringham, April, 1805. 
Dear Neville, 

* * * * 

You wrote me a long sheet this last time, and I have 
every reason to be satisfied with it, yet I sometimes wish 
I could make you write closer and smaller. Since your 
mind must necessarily be now much taken up with 
other things, I dare not press my former inquiries on 
subjects of reading. When your leisure season comes, I 
shall be happy to hear from you on these topics. 

It is a remark of an ancient philosophical poet 
(Horace), that every man thinks his neighbor's condi- 
tion happier than his oavii ; and indeed, common ex- 
perience shows that we are too apt to entertain romantic 
notions of absent, and to think meanly of present, 
things ; to extol what we have had no experience of, 
and to be discontented with what we possess. The man 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 129 

of business sighs for the sweets of leisure : the person 
who, with a taste for reading, has few opportunities for 
it, thinks that man's life the sum of bliss who has noth- 
ing to do but to study. Yet it often happens that the 
condition of the envier is happier than that of the en- 
vied. You have read Dr. Johnson's tale of the poor 
Tallow-chandler, who, after sighing for the quiet of 
country life, at length scraped money enough to retire, 
but found his long-sought-for leisure so insupportable, 
that he made a voluntary offer to his successor to come 
up to town every Friday, and melt tallow for him gratis. 
It would be so with half the men of business, who sigh 
so earnestly for the sweets of retirement ; and you may 
receive it as one of the maturest observations I have 

been able to make on human life, that there is no con- 

1 

dition so happy as that of him who leads a life of full 
and constant employment. His amusements have a 
zest which men of pleasure would gladly undergo all his 
drudgery to experience ; and the regular succession of 
business, provided his situation be not too anxious, 
drives away from his brain those harassing speculations 
which are continually assaulting the man of leisure, and 
the man of reading. The studious man, though his 
pleasures are of the most refined species, finds cares and 
disturbing thoughts in study. To think much and 
deeply will soon make a man sad. His thoughts, ever 
on the wing, often carry him where he shudders to be 
even in imagination. He is like a man in sleep — some- 
times his dreams are pleasing, but at others horror itself 
takes possession of his imagination ; and this inequality 
of mind is almost inseparable from much meditation 
and mental exercise. From this cause it often happens, 
that lettered and philosophical men are peevish in their 
tempers and austere in their manners. The inference I 
would draw from these remarks is generally this, that 
although every man carries about him the seeds of 
happiness or misery in his own bosom, yet it is a truth 
not Uabie to many exceptions, that men are more equally 

Q 



i*?o LE TIERS OE 



free from anxiety and care, in proportion as they recede 
from the more refined and mental, to the grosser and 
bodily employments and modes of life, but that the hap- 
piest condition is placed in the middle, between the ex- 
tremes of both. Thus a person with a moderate love ( f 
reading', and few opportunities of indulging it, would be 
inclined to envy one in my situation, because such a one 
has nothing to do but to read ; but I could tell him, 
that though my studious pleasures are more compret 
hensive than his, they are not more exquisite, and that 
an occasional banquet gives more delight than a contin- 
ual feast. Reading should be dearer to you than tome, 
bt cause 1 always read y and you but seldom. 

Almond and I took a small boat on Monday, and se 
out for Hull, a distance of thirteen miles, as some com- 
pute it, though others make it less. We went very 
merrily, with a good pair of oars, until we came within 
four miles of Hull, when, owing to some hard working, 
we were quite exhausted ; but as the tide was nearly 
down, and the shore soft, we could not get to any vil- 
lages on the banks. At length we made Hull, and just 
arrived in time to be grounded in the middle of the har- 
bor, without any possible means of getting ashore till the 
flux or flood. As we were half-famished, I determined 
to wade ashore for provisions, and had the satisfaction 
of getting above the knees in mud almost every step I 
made. When I got ashore I recollected I had given Al- 
mond all my cash. This was a terrible dilemma — to 
return back was too laborious, and I expected the tid- 
flowing eviiy minute. At last I determined to go to the 
iiin where we usually dine when we go to Hull, and try 
how much credit I possessed there, and I happily found 
no difficulty in procuring refreshments, which I carried 
off in triumph to the boat. Here new difficulties oc- 
ourred ; for the tide had flowed in considerably during 
my absence, although not sufficiently to move the boat, 
so that my wade was much worse back than it had been 
before. On our return, a most placid and calm day was 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 131 

converted into a cloudy one, and we had a brisk gale in 
our teeth. Knowing we were quite safe, we struck 
across from Hull to Barton ; and when we were off Hazel 
Whelps, a place which is always rough, we had some 
tremendous swells, which we weathered admirably, and 
(bating our getting on the wrong side of a bank, owing 
to the deceitful appearance of the coast) we had a pros- 
perous voyage home, having rowed twenty-six miles in 
less than five hours. 

t* *I* •!• V 



TO MR. K. SWANN. 

Wiuteringham, April 6th, 1805. 

My dear Kirke, 

* * * * 

Your complaint of the lukewarmness of your affec- 
tions towards spiritual things, is a very common one 
with Christians. We all feel it ; and if it be attended 
with an earnest desire to acquit ourselves in this respect, 
and to recover our wonted fervor, it is a complaint in- 
dicative of our faithfulness. In cases of Christian expe- 
rience, I submit my own opinion to anybody's, and have 
too serious a distrust of it myself to offer it as a rule or 
maxim of unquestionable authority ; but I have found, 
and think, that the best remedy against lukewarmness 
is an obstinate persisting in prayer until our affections 
be moved, and a regular habit of going to religious 
duties with a prepared and meek heart, thinking more 
of obtaining communion with God than of spending so 
many minutes in seeking it. Thus, when wo pray, we must 
not kneel down with the idea that wearetospend so many 
minutes in supplication, and after the usual time has 
elapsed, go about our regular business ; we must remind 
ourselves that we have an object in prayer, and that until 
that object be attained, that is, until we are satisfied 



132 LETTERS OF 



that our Father hears us, we are not to conceive that 
our duty is performed, although we may be in the pos- 
ture of prayer for an hour. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

Wiiiteringham, April 12th, 1805. 

My dear Mother, 

* * * * 

I have constructed a planetarium, or orrery, of a 
very simple kind, which cannot fail to give even children 
an idea of the order and course of the heavenly bodies. 
I shall write a few plain and si.mple lectures upon it, 
with lessons to be got oft* by heart by the children, so 
that you will be able, without any difficulty, to teach 
them the rudiments of astronomy. The machine, simple 
as it may seem, is such, that you cannot fail to under- 
stand the planetary system by it ; and were it not that 
I cannot afford the additional expense, I could make it 
much more complete and interesting. You must not 
expect anything striking in the instrument itself, as it 
only consists of an index plate, with rods and balls. It 
will explain the situation of the planets, their courses, 
the motion of the earth and moon, the causes of the 
seasons, the different lengths of day and night, the rea- 
son of eclipses, transits, &c. When you have seen it, 
and read the explanatory lectures, you will be able to 
judge of its plainness ; and if you find you understand 
it, you may teach geography scholars its use. Should it 
fail in other points of view, it will be useful to Maria 
and Catharine. 

•j* 5jx .fi .y. 

Remember to keep up the plan of family worship on 
Sundays with strictness until I come, audit will prob- 
ably pave the way for still further improvements, which 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 133 

I may, perhaps, have an opportunity of making while I 
stay with you. Let Maria and Catharine be more par- 
ticularly taught to regard Sunday as a day set apart 
from all worldly occupations: let them have everything 
prepared for the Sabbath on the preceding day ; and be 
carefully warned, on that day in particular, to avoid 
paying too great an attention to dress. I know how: 
important habits like these will be to their future hap- 
piness even in this world, and I therefore press this with 

earnestness. 

* * * * 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Winteringham, 20th May, 1805. 

Dear Neville, 

* * * * 

My first business must be to thank you for the 

which I received by Mr. K. Swann ; you must not sup- 
pose that I feel reluctance to lie under obligations to so 
affectionate a brother, when I say, that I have felt un- 
easy ever since on more accounts than one. I am con- 
vinced, in the first place, that you have little to spare ; 
and I fear, in the second, that I shall prove an hin- 
drance to a measure which I know to be necessary for 
your health ; I mean your going to some watering-place 
for the benefit of sea-bathing. I am aware of the nature 
of injuries received at the joints, especially the knee : 
and I am sure nothing will strengthen your knee more 
for the present, and prevent the recurrence of disease in 
it for the future. I would have you, therefore, if by any 
means you can be spared in London, go to one of the 
neighboring coasts, and take sufficient time to recover 
your strength. You may pitch upon some pleasant 
place, where there will be sufficient company to amuse 
you, and not so much as to create bustle, and make a 



134 LETTERS OF 



toil of reflection, and turn retirement into riot. Since 
you must be as sensible as I am, that this is necessary 
for your health, I shall feel assured, if you do not go, 
that I am the cause, a consideration I would gladly 
spare myself. 

* * * * 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, June, 1805. 

My dear Brother, 

I wrote you a long letter from Winteringham some 
time ago, which I now apprehend you have never re- 
ceived, or, if you have, some more important concerns 
have occupied your time than writing to me on general 
subjects. Feeling, however, rather weary to night, I 
have determined to send this sheet to you, as a pi oof 
that if I am not a punctual, I am certainly far from a 
ceremonious correspondent. 

Our adventure on the Humber you should have learnt 
from K. Swarm, who, with much minuteness, filled up 
three sides of a letter to his friend with the account. 
The matter was simply this : he, Almond, and myself, 
made an excursion about twelve or fourteen miles up 
the Humber ; on our return ran aground, were left by 
the tide on a sand- bank, and were obliged to remain six 
hours in an open boat, exposed to a heavy rain, high 
wind, and piercing cold, until the tide rose, when two 
men brought a boat to our assistance. We got home 
about twelve o'clock at night ; no evil consequences en- 
sued, owing to our using every exertion we could think 
of to keep warmth in our bodies. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 135 



TO MR. JOHN CHARLESWQRTH. 

Nottingham, 21th June, 1805. 

My dear Friend, 

It is some time since I wrote to you, and still longer 
since I heard from you ; but you are acquainted with 
my unceremonious disposition, and will, I hope, pardon 
me for obtruding an unbidden guest on your notice. I 
have a question to ask of you in the first place, and I 
shall then fill up my letter with all the familiarity of a 
man talking by your side, and saying anything, rather 
than be accused of saying nothing. My leisure will 
scarcely permit me to write to you again while 1 am 
here, and I shall therefore make the best use of the pres- 
ent occasion. 

* * * * • . 

We have been fagging through Roliin's Ancient His- 
tory, and some other historical books, as I believe, to 
no great purpose. Rollin is a valuable and truly pious 
writer, but so crammed and garnished with reflections, 
that you lose the thread of the story, while the poor 
man is prosing about the morality of it ; when, too, 
after all, the moral is so obvious as not to need insisting 
upon. You may give my compliments to your good 
friends Galen, Hippocrates and Paracelsus, and tell them 
I had much rather pay them my devoirs at a distance 
than come into close contact with them or their cathar- 
tics. Medical Greek, and medical Latin, would act as a 
sudorific upon any man, who should hear their tremen- 
dous technicals pronounced with the true ore rotundo 
of a Scotch physician. 

And now, my dear Sir, we will cry a truce to flip- 
pancy — I have neither time nor inclination to indulge 
in it to excess. You and I have been some time asunder 
in the pursuit of our several studies ; you to the lively 
and busy seat of gayety, fashion and folly ; I to the ie- 



•P""B»"*»H*!!^W 



i$b LETTERS OF 



tired haunts of a secluded village, and the studious 
walls of a silent and ancient parsonage. At first sight 
one would think that my lot had been most profitable. 
as undoubtedlj- it is most jj?cure ; but when we come to 
consider the present state of things in the capital, the 
boundless opportunities of spiritual improvement which 
offer themselves, and the very superior society which 
every serious man may there join with, the tables seem 
turned in your favor. I hope and trust this is really the 
case, and that, with philosophical strength of mind, you 
have turned an unregarding ear to the voice of folly, 
and continued fixed upon the serener and far more ex- 
quisite occupations of a religious life. I have been cul- 
tivating in retirement, by slow and imperceptible de- 
grees, a closer communion with God ; but you have 
been led, at it were, in triumph by the energetic dis- 
courses of the many good men whom you have had the 
opportunity of hearing, to heights of religious satisfac- 
tion, which I can at present only sigh for at a distance. 
I appeal to you whether the Grace of God is not the 
source of exquisite enjoyments ? What can be more de- 
lightful than that sweet and placid calm which it casts 
over one's mind ; or than the tenderness it sheds abroad 
in our hearts, both with regard to God, and our poor 
fellow-laborers ? Even worldly-minded men confess that 
this life is, at best, but a scene of anxiety, and disap- 
pointment, and distress. How absurd, then, and in- 
consistent, must be their conduct, when, in spite of this 
so general and confirmed an experience, they neglect 
what can alone alleviate the sorrows of this life, and 
provide for the happiness of the next ? How much more 
is he to be envied, who can exclaim with St. Paul, 
" The world is crucified unto me, and I unto the world." 
" / have learnt, in whatever state I am, therewith to be 
content.'" " The world passeth away, and the lust there- 
of; but he that doeth the will of God, a.bideth forever." 
There is, in truth, an indescribable satisfaction in the 
service of God ; his grace imparts such composure in 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 137 

time of trouble, and such fortitude in the anticipation 
of it, at the same time that it increases our pleasures by 
making them innocent, that the Christian, viewed either 
as militant in this troublous scene, or as a traveller who 
is hastening by a difficult, but short journey, to a better 
country, is a most enviable and happy character. The 
man who lives without (rod in the world, on the other 
hand, has neither rest here, nor certainty or hope for 
the future. His reflections must, at all times, be dubious 
and dark, not to say distressing : and his most exquisite 
enjoyments must have a sting of fear and apprehension 
in them, which is felt when the gay hour is over, and its 
joys no more remembered. Many wicked and dissipated 
men sigh in secret for the state of the righteous, but they 
conceive there are insuperable obstacles in the way of 
religion, and that they must amend their lives before 
they can hope for acceptance, or even dare to seek ac- 
ceptance with God. But what a miserable delusion is 
this ! If this were truly the case, how awful would be 
the condition of the sinner ! for we know that our hearts 
are so depraved, and so obstinately addicted to sin, that 
they cannot forsake it without some more than mortal 
power to cut asunder the bonds of innate corruption, 
and loosen the affections from this sinful bondage. I 
was talking a few days ago with a young surgeon, who 
is jui-t returned from the East Indies, and was expostu- 
lating with him on his dissolute habits : " Sir," said he, 
" I know you are happy, and I would give worlds to be 
able to subdue my passion ; but it is impossible, it never 
can be done. I have made resolution upon resolution, 
and the only effect has been, that I have plunged 
deeper into vice than ever." What could be a stronger 
illustration of the Scripture truth, that man's heart is 
naturally corrupt, and desperately wicked ? Since 
wickedness is misery, can we conceive that an all-good 
and benevolent God would have originally created man 
with such a disposition ? It is sin which has made the 
world a vale of tears. It is the power of the cross of 



138 LETTERS OF 



Jesus Christ alone that can redeem us from our natural 
depravity. " Yes," my friend, " we know on whom we 
have believed ; and we are persuaded, that he is able 
to keep that which we have committed unto him against 
the great day." When I occasionally reflect on the his- 
tory of the times when the great Redeemer appeared, 
behold God preparing his way before him, uniting all the 
civilized world in one language (Greek), for the speedier 
disseminating of the blessed Gospel ; and then when 
I compare his precepts with those of the most famous 
of ancient sages, and meditate on his life, his maimers, 
his sufferings, and cruel death, I am lost in wonder, love, 
and gratitude. Such a host of evidence attended him, 
as no power but that of the devil could withstand. His 
doctrines, compared with the morality of the then world, 
seem indeed to have dropt down from heaven. His 
meakness, his divine compassion and pity for, and for- 
giveuess of, his bitterest enemies, convinces me that he 
was indeed the Word, that he was what he professed to 
be, God, in his Son, reconciling the world to himself. 
These thoughts open my eyes to my own wretched in- 
gratitude, and disregard of so merciful and compassion- 
ate a master ; under such impressions, I could ardently 
long to be separated altogether from the affairs of this 
life, and live alone to my Redeemer. But, alas ! this 
does not last long — the pleasing outside of the delusive 
world entices my heart away ; beauty smiles me into a 
disgust of religion, and the fear of singularity frowns me 
into the concealment of it. How artfully does the arch- 
deceiver insinuate himself into our hearts! He tells us 
that there is a deal of unnecessary moroseness in relig- 
ion, a deal too many humiliating conditions in the gos- 
pel, and many ignorant absurdities in its professors ; 
while, on the other hand, the polite world is so cheerful 
and pleasing, so full of harmless gayety and refined ele- 
gance, that we cannot but love it. This is an insidious 
species of reasoning. Could we but see things in their 
true colors, were but the false varnish off, the society of 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 130 

the gospel would seem an assembly of angels, that of 
the world a congregation of devils : but it is the best way 
not to reason with the tempter. I have a talisman, 
which at once puts to flight all his arguments : it is the 
name of my Saviour, and against that the gates of heil 
shall not prevail. That is my anchor and my con- 
fidence : I can go with that to the bed of death, and lift 
up the eyes of the dying and despairing wretch to the 
great Intercessor ; I can go with this into the society of 
the cheerful, and come away with lightness of heart and 
entertainment of spirit. In every circumstance of life I 
can join with Job, who, above fourteen hundred years 
before Jesus Christ, exclaims, in the fervor of holy anti- 
cipation, *' I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that 
he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth ; and 
though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my 
flesh shall I see God." 

The power of the gospel was never more strongly 
illustrated than in the late mission to Greenland. These 
poor and unlettered tribes, who inhabit nearly the ex- 
tremest verge of animal existence, heard the discourse 
of the Danish missionaries on the being of a God with 
stupid unconcern, expressed their assent to everj^thing 
that was proposed to them, and then hoped to extort 
some present for their complacency. For ten years did 
a very learned and pious man labor among them with- 
out the conversion of a single soul. He thought that he 
must prove to them the existence of a God, and the 
original stain of our natures, before he could preach 
the peculiar doctrines of the gospel, and he could never 
get over this first step ; for they either could not under- 
stand it, or would not, and when no presents were to be 
had, turned away in disgust. At length he saw his 
error, and the plan of operations was altered. Jesus 
Christ was preached in simplicity, without any prepara- 
tion. The Greenlanders seemed thoughtful, amazed and 
confounded ; their eyes were opened to their depraved 
and lost state. The gospel was received everywhere 



140 LETTERS OF 



with ardent attention. The flame spread like wild-fire 
over the icy wastes of Greenland ; numbers came from 
the remotest recesses of the Northern O-jean to hear the 
word of life, and the greater part of the population of 
that extensive country has in time been baptized in the 
name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. 

I have now filled my sheet. Pardon my prolixity, 
and, believe me, my prayers are offered up frequently 
for your continuance of the path you have chosen. For 
myself, I need your prayers — may we be a mutual assist- 
ance to each other, and to all our fellow-laborers in the 
Lord Jesus. 

Believe me 

Your sincere friend, 

H. K. White. 



TO MR. JOHN CHARLESWORTH. 

Nottingham, 6th July, 1805. 

Dear Charlesworth, 

* * * * 

I beg you will admire the elegance of texture and 
shape of the sheet on Avhich I have the honor to write 
to you, and beware, lest in drawing your conclusions, 
you conceive that I am turned exciseman ; for I assure 
you I write altogether in character ; — a poor Cambridge 
scholar, with a patrimony of a few old books, an ink- 
horn, and some sundrj 7 quires of paper, manufactured 
as the envelope of pounds of tea, but converted into re- 
positories of learning and taste. 

The classics are certainly in disrepute. The ladies 
have no more reverence for Greek and Latin than they 
have for an old peruke, or the ruffles of Queen Anne. I 
verily believe that they would hear Homer's Greek with- 
out evidencing one mark of terror and awe, even though 
spouted by an university orator, or a Westminster sten- 
tor. O tempora, mores ! the rural elegance of the 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 141 

twanging French horn, and the vile squeak of the Ital- 
ian fiddle, are more preferred than all the energy and 
all the sublimity of all the Greek and Roman orators, 
historians, poets and philosophers, put together. Now, 
sir, as a classic, I cannot bear to have the honorable 
fame of the ancients thus despised and contemned, and 
therefore I have a controversy with all the beaux and 
belles, Frenchmen and Italians. When they tell me 
that I walk by rule and compass, that I balance my 
body with strict regard to the centre of gravity, and that 
I have more Greek in my pate than grace in my limbs, 
I can bear it all in sullen silence, for you know it must 
be a libel, since I am no mathematician, and therefore 
cannot have learned to walk ill by system. As for grace, 
I do believe, since I read Xenophon, I am become a very 
elegant man, and in due time shall be able to spout 
Pindar, dancing in due gradation the advancing, retro- 
grade and medium steps, according to the regular pro- 
gress of the strophe, antistrophe, and epode. You and 
I will be very fashionable men after the manner of the 
Greeks : we will institute an orchestra for the exercise of 
the ars saltandi, and will recline at our meals on the 
legitimate Triclinium of the ancients — only banish all 
modern beaux and belles, to whom I am a professed and 
declared enemy. 

So much for flippancy — 

Vale ! S.R.V.B.E.E.Q.V. 

11. K. White. 



TO MR. SERJEANT ROUGH. 

Brigg, near Winteringhani, July, 1805. 

My dear Sir, 

I have just missed you at Lincoln, where I had some 
expectations of seeing you, and had not circumstances 
prevented, I had certainly waited there till to-morrow 
morning for that purpose. This letter, which I wrote at 
Brigg, I shall convey to you at Kirton, by some parson 



J42 LETTERS OE 



going to the session ; many of whom, I have no doubt, 
are to be found in this litigious little town. 

Your mis-direeted epistle, to my great sorrow, never 
reached my hands. As I was very anxious to get it, I 
made many inquiries at the post-offices round ; but they 
were all in vain. I consider this as a real loss, and I 
hope you will regard me as still under the pressure of 
vexation, until I receive some substitute from your 
hands. 

Hid I any certain expectation of hearing you address 
the Court, or Jury sworn, at Kirton, no circumstances 
should prevent me from being present ; so do I long to 
mark the dawnings of that eloquence which will one 
day ring through every court in the Midland Circuit. I 

think the noise of , the overbearing petulance of 

, and the decent assurance of , will readily yield 

to that pure, chaste, and manly eloquence, which, I have 
no doubt, you chiefly cultivate. It seems to me, who 
am certainly no very competent judge, that this is an 
uniform mode or art of pleading in our courts, which is 
in itself faulty, and is, moreover, a bar to the higher 
excellences. You know, before a barrister begins, in 
what manner he will treat the subject ; you anticipate 
his positiveness, his complete confidence in the stability 
of his case, his contempt of his opponent, his voluble 
exaggeration, and the vehemence of his indignation. 
All these are as of course. It is no matter what sort of 

a face the business assume : if Mr. be aD impetuosity, 

astonishment and indignation on one side, we know he 
would not have been a whit less impetuous, less aston- 
ished, or less indignant, on the other, had he happened 
to have been retained. It is true, this assurance of suc- 
cess, this contempt of an opponent, and dictatorial de- 
cision in speaking, are calculated to have effect on the 
minds of a jury ; and if it be the business of a counsel to 
obtain his ends by any means, he is right to adopt them ; 
but the misfortune is, that all these things are mechan- 
ical, and as much in the power of the opposite counsel 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 143 

as in your own ; so that it is not so much who argues 
best, as who speaks last, loudest, or longest. True 
eloquence, on the other hand, is confident only where 
there is real ground for confidence, trusts more to reason 
and facts than to imposing declamation, and seeks 
rather to convince than dazzle. The obstreperous rant 
of a pleader may, for awhile, intimidate a jury ; but 
plain and manly argument, delivered in a candid and 
ingenious manner, will more effectually work upon their 
understandings, and will make an impression on which 
the froth of declamation will be lost. I think a man 
who would plead in this manner, would gain the con- 
fidence of a jury, and would find the avenues of their 
hearts much more open, than a man of more assurance, 
who, by too much confidence where there is much doubt, 
and too much vehemence where there is greater 
need of coolness, puts his hearers continually in mind 
that he is pleading for hire. There seems to me so much 
beauty in truth, that I could wish our barristers would 
make a distinction between cases, in their opinion well 
or ill founded, embarking their whole heart and soul in 
the one, and contenting themselves with a perspicuous 
and forcible statement of their client's case in the other. 
Pardon my rambling. The cacoethes scribendi can 
only be used by indulgence, and we have all a projpen. 
sit)- to talk about things we do not understand. 
* * * * 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Winteringhain, Any. 20th, 1805. 

Dear Neville, 

I am very sensible of all your affection, in your anx- 
iety that I should not diminish my books ; but I am by 
no means relieved from the anxiety which, on more ac- 
counts than one, I am under as to my present situa- 



144 LETTERS OF 



tion, so great a burthen to the family, when I ought to 
be a support. My father made some heavy complaints 
when I was at home ; and though I am induced to be- 
lieve that he is enough harassed to render it very excus- 
able, yet I cannot but feel strongly the peculiarity of my 
situation, and, at my age, feel ashamed that I should 
add to his burthens. At present I have my hands com- 
pletely tied behind me. When I get to college,- 1 hope 
to have more opportunities of advantage, and, if I am 
fortunate, I shall probably relieve my father and mother 
from the weight which I now lay upon them. I wish 
you, if you read this letter to my mother, to omit this 
part. 



TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. 

Wiuteringliam, Sept. 10th, 1805. 
Dear Sir, 

Your letter has at length reached me at this place 
where I have been for the last ten months employed in 
classical reading, with Mr. Grainger. It gives me pleas- 
ure to hear of you, and of poetry ; for, since I came here, 
I have not only been utterly shut out from all inter- 
course with the lettered world, but have totally laid 
aside the pen of inspiration. I have been actuated to 
this by a sense of duty ; for I wish to prove that I have 
not coveted the ministerial office through the desire of 
learned leisure, but with an ardent wish to do my duty 
as a teacher of the truth. I should blush to present my- 
self as a candidate for that office in an unqualified and 
unprepared state ; and as I have placed my idea of the 
necessary qualifications very high, all the time between 
now and my taking my degree will be little enough for 
these purposes alone. I often, however, cast a look of 
fond regret to the darling occupations of my younger 
hours, and the tears rush into my eyes, as I fancy I see 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 145 



the few wild flowers of poetic genius with which I have 
been blessed withering with neglect. Poetry has been 
to me something more than amusement ; it has been a 
cheering companion when I have had no other to fly to, 
and a delightful solace Avhen consolation has been in 
some measure needful. I cannot, therefore, discard so 
old and faithful a friend without deep regret, especially 
when I reflect that, stung by my ingratitude, he may 
desert me forever ! 

n* "j* "P *F 

With regard to your intended publication, you do me 
too much honor by inserting my puerilities along with 
such good company as I know I shall meet there. I 
wish I could present you with some sonnets worthy of 
your work. I have looked back amongst my old papers, 
and find a few verses under that name, which were 
written between the time when *' Clifton Grove" was 
sent to the press and its final appearance. The looking 
over these papers has recalled a little of my old warmth, 
and I have scribbled some lines, which, as they owe 
their rise to your letter, I may fairly (if I have room) 
present to you. I cannot read the sonnets which I have 
found amongst my papers with pleasure, and therefore 
I shall not presume to show them to you. I shall anx- 
iously expect the publication of your work- 

I shall be in Cambridge next month, being admitted 
a sizar at St. John's. Trinity would have suited my 
plans better, but the expenses of that college are 
greater. 

With thanks f >r your kind remembrance of me, I 
remain, 

Dear Sir, 
Veiy respectfully and thankfully yours, 

li. K. White. 

Yes, my stray stops have -wander'd, wander'd far 
From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy ! 
And many a flower, which in the passing time 
My heart hath regis ter'd, nipp'd by the chill 

10 



146 LETTERS OF 



Of undeserv'd neglect, hath shrunk and died. 

Heart-soothing Poesy !— Tho' thou hast ceas'd 

To hover o'er the many-voiced strings 

Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still 

Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell, 

And with recalled images of bliss 

Warm my reluctant heart.— Yes, I would throw, 

Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand 

O'er the responding chords.— It hath not ceas'd— 

It cannot, will not cease ; the heavenly warmth 

Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek ; 

Still, tho' unbidden, plays.— Fair Poesy ! 

The summer and the spring, the wind and rain, 

Sunshine and storm, with various interchange, 

Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month) 

Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retir'd, 

Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. — Sorceress ! 

1 cannot burst thy bonds !— It is but lift 

Thy blue eyes to that deep bespangled vault t 

Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm, 

And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme, 

And 1 could follow thee, on thy night's work. 

Up to the regions of thrice-chastened fire, 

Or in the caverns of the ocean flood, 

Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot. 

Yet other duties call me, and mine ear 

Must turn away from the high minstrelsy 

Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly 

Must turn away ;— there are severer strains 

(And surely they are sweet as ever smote 

The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil 

Keleas'd and disembodied), there are strains 

Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought, 

Thro' the probation of revolving years, 

And mighty converse with the spirit of truth, 

Have purged and purified.— To these my soul 

Aspireth ; and to this sublimer end 

I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep 

With patient expectation.— Yea, sometimes 

Foretaste of bliss rewards me ; and sometimes 

Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait, 

And minister strange music, which doth seem 

Now near, now distant, now on high, now low, 

Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete, 

And full fruition tilling all the soul. 

Surely such ministry, tho' rare, may soothe 

The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude 

Of toil ; and but that my fond heart 

Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone, 



HENRY KIRK E WHITE. 147 



When by clear fountain, or embowered bral:e, 

I lay a listless muser, prizing far 

Above all other lore, the poet's theme ; 

But for such recollections 1 could brace 

My stubborn spirit for the arduous path 

Of science unregretting ; eye afar 

Philosophy upon her steepest height, 

And with bold step, and resolute attempt, 

Pursue her to the innermost recess, 

Where thron'd in light she sits, the Queen of Truth. 

These verses form nearly the only poetical effort of 
this year. Pardon their imperfections. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

St. John's, Oct 18th, 1805. 

My dear Bex, 

I am at length finally settled in my rooms, and, ac- 
cording to my promise, I write to you to tell you so. I 
did not feel quite comfortable at first here ; but I now 
begin to feel at home, and relish my silent and thought- 
ful cup of tea more than ever. Amongst our various 
occupations, that of attending chapel is to me not the 
least irksome, for the service is read in general below 
the span of my auditory nerve ; but when they chaunt, 
I am quite charmed, for our organ is fine, and the voices 
are good. This is, however, only on high days and fes- 
tivals, in which number the present day is to be reck- 
oned (St. Luke's). 

My mathematical studies do not agree with me, and 
you may satisfy yourself I shall never be a senior wran- 
gler. Many men come up with knowledge enough for the 
highest honors, and how can a man be expected to keep 
up with them who starts without any previous fund ? 
Our lectures begin on Monday, and then I shall know 
more of college difficulties. 

My rooms are in the top story of the farthest court of 
St. John's (which you perhaps remember) near the clois- 



148 LETTERS OF 



ters. They are light, and tolerably pleasant ; though, 
as there was no furniture in them, and I have not yet 
bought many necessary articles, they look very bare. 
Your phiz over the chimney-piece has been recognized 
by two of my fellow-students : the one recollected its 
likeness to Mr. Maddock, of Magdalene ; and the other 
said it was like a young man whom he had seen -with 
Mr. Maddock, and whom he supposed to be his brother. 

Of my new acquaintances, I have become intimate 

with a Mr. , who, I hope, will be senior wrangler. 

He is a very serious and friendly man, and a man of no 
common mathematical talents. He lives in the same 
court with me. Besides him, I know of none whose 
friendship I should value ; and, including him, no one 
whose hand I would take in preference to that of my 
old friend ; so long as I see my old friend with his old 
face. When you have learned to be other than what 
you are, I shall not regret that B. M. is no longer my 
friend, but that my former friend is now no more. 
* * * * 

I walked through Magdalene the other day, and I 
could not help anticipating the time when I should come 
to drink your tea, and swallow your bread and butter, 
within the sacred walls. You must know our college 
was originally a convent for Black Friars ; and if a man 
of the reign of Henry the Sixth were to peep out of his 
grave, in an adjoining churchyard, and look into our 
portals, judging by our dress and appearance, he might 
deem us a convent of Black Friars still. Some of our 
brethren, it is true, would seem of very unsightly bulk ; 
but many of them, with eyes sunk into their heads, from 
poring over the mathematics, might pass very well for 
the fasting and mortified shadows of penitent monks. 

With regard to the expenses of our college, I can 
now speak decisively ; and I can tell you, that I shall 
be here an independent man. I am a Senior Sizar, under 
very favorable circumstances, and I believe the profits 
of my situation will nearly equal the actual expenses of 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 149 

the college. But this is no rule for other colleges. I am 
on the best side (there are two divisions) of St. John's, 
and the expenses here are less than anywhere else in the 
university. 

I have this week written some very elaborate verses 
for a college prize, and I have at length learned that I 
am not qualified for a competitor, not being a Lady 
Margaret's scholar ; so that I have lost my labor. Com- 
pared with the other men of this large college, I find I 
am a respectable classic, and if I had time to give to the 
languages, I think I should ultimately succeed in them 
in no small degree ; but the fates forbid ; mathematics 
I must read, and in mathematics I know I never shall 
excel. These are harassing reflections for a poor young 
man gaping for a fellowship ! 

If I choose, I could find a good deal of religious society 
here, but I must not indulge myself with it too much. 
Mr. Simeon's preaching strikes me much. 

$ $ :js $ 

I beg you will answer a thousand such questions as 
these without my asking them. 

This is a letter of intelligence : — Next shall be senti- 
ment (or Grothic arch, for they are synonymous accord- 
ing to Mr. M.). 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

St. John's, October 26th, 1805. 

Dear Mother, 

* * * * 

You seem to repose so little confidence in what I say 
with regard to my college expenses, that I am not en- 
couraged to hope you will give me much credit for 
what I am about to say ; namely, that had I no money 
at all, either from my friends or Mr. Simeon, I could 
manage to live here. My situation is so very favorable, 
and the necessary expenses so very few, that I shall 



150 LETTERS OF 



want very little more than will suffice for clothes and. 

books. I have got the bills of Mr. , a sizar of this 

college, now before me, and from them, and his own 
account, I will give you a statement of what my College 
bills will amount to. 

* *J* ■!» ■!* 

Thus my college expenses will not be more than 
twelve or fifteen pounds a year at the most. I shall not 
have any occasion for the whole sum I have a claim 
upon Mr. Simeon for, and if things go well, I shall be 
able to live without being dependent on any one. The 
Mr. , whose bills I have borrowed, has been at Col- 
lege three years. He came over from with ten 

pounds in his pocket, and has no friends or any income 
or emolument whatever except what he receives for his 
sizarship: yet he does support himself, and that, too, 
very genteelly. It is only men's extravagance that 
makes college life so expensive. There are sizars at St. 
John's who spend 150Z. a year ; but they are gay, dis- 
sipated men, who choose to be sizars in order that they 
may have more money to lavish on their pleasures. Our 
dinners and suppers cost us nothing ; and if a man 
choose to eat milk breakfasts, and go without tea, he 
may live absolutely for nothing ; for his College emolu- 
ments will cover the rest of his expenses. Tea is indeed 
almost superfluous, since we do not rise from dinner till 
half-past three, and the supper bell rings a quarter be- 
fore nine. Our mode of living is not to be complained 
of, for the table is covered with all possible variety ; and 
on feast days, which our fellows take care are pretty 
frequent, we have wine. 

You will now. I trust, feel satisfied on this subject, 
and will no longer give yourself unnecessary uneasiness 
on my account. 

* * * * 

I was unfortunate enough to be put into unfurnished 
rooms, so tnat my furniture will cost me a little more 
than I expected ; I suppose about fifteen pounds, or 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 151 

perhaps not quite so much. I sleep on a hair mattress, 
which I find just as comfortable as a bed ; it only cost 
me four pounds along with blankets, counterpane, and 
pillows, &c. I have three rooms — a sitting-room, a bed- 
room, and a kind of scullery or pantry. My sitting- 
room is very light and pleasant, and, what does not 
often happen, the walls are in good case, having been 
latelj r stained green. 

I must commission my sister to make me a pair of 
letter-racks, but they must not be fine, because my fur- 
niture is not very fine. I think the old shape (or octa- 
gons one upon another) is the neatest, and white the 
best color. I wish Maria would paint vignettes in the 
squares, because then I should see how her drawing 
proceeds. You must know that these are not intended 
as mere matters of show, but are intended to answer 
some purpose ; there are so many particular places to 
attend on particular days, that unless a man is very 
cautious, he has nothing else to do than to pay forfeits 
for non-attendance. A few cards and a little rack will 
will be a short way of helping the memory. 

I think I must get a supply of sugar from London ; 

for if I buy it here it will cost me Is. 6<2. per pound, 

which is rather too much. I have got tea enough to last 

the term out. 

* * * * 

Although you may be quite easy on the subject of 
my future support, yet you must not form splendid ideas 
of my success at the University, for the lectin ers all 
speak so low, and we sit at such a distance, that I can- 
not hear a syllable. I have, therefore, no more advan- 
tage than if I were studying at home. 

I beg we may have no more doubts and fears, at 
least on my score. I think I am now very near being 
off your hands \ and, since my education at the Uni_ 
versity is quite secure, you need not entertain gloomy 
apprehensions for the future : my maintenance will, at 
all events, be decent and respectable ; and you must not 



152 LETTERS OF 



grieve yourself because I cannot be as rich as an alder- 
man. 

* * * * 

Do not show this letter to all comers, nor leave it 
about, for people will have a very mean idea of Univer- 
sity education when they find it costs so little ; but if 
they are saucy on the subject, tell them — I have a lord 
just under me. 



TO THE REV. JOHN DASHWOOD. 

St. John's, Oct. 26<7i,-1805 

Dear Sir, 

It is now many months since I wrote to you, and I 
have not received any answer. I should not have 
troubled you with this letter, but that, considering how 
much I owe to you, I thought the rules and observances 
of strict etiquette might with moral propriety be dis- 
pensed with. 

Suffer me therefore to tell you, that I am quietly and 
comfortably settled at St. John's ; silently conforming 
myself to the habits of college life, and pursuing my 
studies with such moderation as I think necessary for 
my health. I feel very much at home, and tolerably 
happy ; although the peculiar advantages of University 
education will in a great measure be lost to me, since 
there is not one of the lecturers whom I am able to hear. 

My literary ambition is, I think, now fast subsiding, 
and a better emulation springing up in its room. I con- 
ceive that, considering the disadvantages under which I 
labor, very little can be expected from me in the Senate 
House. I shall not, however, remit my exertions, but 
shall at least strive to acquit myself with credit, though 
I cannot hope for the more splendid honors. 

With regard to my college expenses, I have the pleas- 
ure to inform you, that my situation is so favorable that 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 153 

I shall be obliged, in strict rectitude, to waive the offers 
of many of my friends. I shall not even need the sum 
Mr. Simeon mentioned after the first year ; and it is not 
impossible that I may be able to live without any as- 
sistance at all. I confess I feel pleasure in the thought 
of this, not through any vain pride of independence, but 
because I shall then give a more unbiassed testimony to 
the truth, than if I were supposed to be bound to it by 
any ties of obligation or gratitude. I shall always feel 
as much indebted for intended, as for actually afforded 
assistance ; and though I should never think a sense of 
thankfulness an oppressive burthen, yet I shall be hap- 
py to evince it, when, in the eyes of the world, the obli- 
gation to it has been discharged. 

* * * * 

I hope you will ere long relieve me from the painful 
thought that I lie under your displeasure ; and be- 
lieve me, 

Dear Sir, 
Most sincerely and affectionately yours, 

H. K. White. 



TO MR. CHARLES WORTH. 

* * # * 

Cum diutius a te f rustra litteras expectassem memet in 
animum tuum revocare aut iteruin otio obtrudere 
nolebam. 

Penes teeratautnobiscum denuo per litteras colloqui 
aut familiaritatem et necessitatem nostram silentio dim- 
ittere. Hoc te prsetulisse jam diu putaveram, cum 
epistola tua mini in manus venit. 

* * * * 

Has litteras scribebam intra sanctos Sanctissimi 
Johannis Collegii muros, in celeberrima hac nostra acad- 
emia Cantabrigse. 

Hie tranquillitate denique litterarum propria, summa 



154 LETTERS OF 



cam Voluptate conjuncta fruor. Uic oinnes discendi 
vias, dimes sciential ration es indago et persequor : nes- 
cio quid tandem evasurus. Certe si parum proficio, milii 
culpa? jure datum erit ; modo valetudo me sinat. 

llaud tamen vereor, si verum dicere cogor, ut satis 
proficiam : quanquam in fir mis auribus aliorum lecturas 
vix unquam audire queam. In Matheinaticis parum 
adhuc profeei : utpote qui perarduum certamen cum 
eruditissimis quibusque in veterum Unguis et moribus 
versatis jam-jam sim initurus. 

His in studiis pro niea perbrevi sane et tanquam 
hesterna consuetudine haud mediocriter sum versatus. 

Latine minus eleganter scribere videor quam Grraect- : 
neque vero eadem voluptate scriptores Latinos lectito 
quam GraBCOs : cum autem omnem industrial meae vim 
Romanis litteris contulerim haud dubito quin faciles 
mini et propitias eas faciam. 

Te etiam revocatum velim ad haec elegantia delici- 

asquelitterarum. Quid enim accommodatius videri potest 

aut ad animum quotidianis curis laboribusque oppres- 

sum reficiendum et recreandum aut ad mentem et fac- 

ultates ingenii acuendas quam exquisita et expolita 

summaque vi et acumine ingenii elaborata veterum 

scriptorum opera ? 

* * * * 



TO HIS BROTHER JAMES. 

St. John's, November, 180o. 

My dear James, 

You do not know how anxious I am to hear how you 
go on in all things ; and whether you still persist in 
steadfastness and seriousness. I know, my dear lad, 
that your heart is too good to run into actual vice, yet I 
fear the example of gay and wicked persons may lead 
you to think lightly of religion, and then who knows 
where it may end ? Neville, however, will always be 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 155 

your director, and I trust you conceal none, even of your 
very thoughts, from him. Continue; James, to solicit the 
fatherly superintendence of your Maker, night and 
morning. I shall not fear for you, while I am assured 
you do this fervently, and not in a hurried or slovenly 
manner. With constant prayer, we have nothing to 
fear from the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the 
devil : God will bring us through it, and will save us in 
the midst of peril. If we consider the common condition 
of man's life, and the evils and misfortunes to Avhich we 
are daily exposed, we have need to bless God every mo- 
ment for sparing us, and to beg of him, that when the 
day of misfortune comes, (and come it must, sooner or 
later, to all,) we may be prepared with Christian forti- 
tude to endure the shock. What a treasure does the re- 
ligious man possess in this, that when everything else 
fails, he has God for his refuge ; and can look to a world 
where he is sure, through Christ Jesus, that he will not 
be disappointed ! 

I do not much heed to what place of worship you 
may go, so as you are but a serious and regular attend- 
ant. Permit me, however, to explain the true nature of 
the question with regard to the church liturgy, in order 
that you may be the better able to judge. 

You know from the epistles of St. Paul, that soon 
after the death of Jesus Christ, there were regular 
churches established in various places, as at Corinth, 
Galatia, Thessalonica, &c, &c. Now, we are not cer- 
tain that they used forms of prayers at all in these 
churches, much more that any part of ours was used 
in their time ; but it is certain, that in the year of our 
Lord 286, there was a general liturgy in use throughout 
all the churches of Christ. Now, if in that early time, 
when Christians were much more like the apostles than 
they are now, they used a form of prayer in the churches, 
it is fair to conclude that the practice was not unscript- 
ural : besides, at this very time, St. John, the Evangelist, 
had not been dead above 100 years, and one of his dis- 



I5 6 LETTERS OF 



ciples, though at a very great age, was actually liviug 
St. Chrysostom, who lived above 354 years after Christ, 
wrote some of our prayers, and the greater part of then 
have been in general use for a thousand years. About 
the year 2815, about one thousand five hundred years 
ago, immense multitudes of savages, the Goths and 
Vandals, being enticed by the fertility of the Italian 
country, and the riches of its possessors, came down 
from Germany, Hungary, and all the northern parts of 
Europe, upon the Roman empire, then enfeebled with 
luxury, and endeavored to gain possession of the south. 
They were at first repulsed ; but as fast as they were de- 
feated or slain, new hordes, allured by the accounts which 
their countrymen gave of its opulence and abundance 
succeeded in their stead ; till the forces of the Romans 
grew unequal to the contest, and gradually gave way to 
the invaders, who, wherever they came, reduced every- 
thing to a state of barbarism. The Christians, about 
this time, were beginning to prevail in the Roman ter- 
ritories, and under the Emperor Constantine, who was 
the first Christian king, were giving the blow to idolatry. 
But the savage intolerance of the invaders, who reduced 
the conquered to abject slavery, burnt books wherever 
they found them, and even forbade the cultivation of 
learning, reduced them to the utmost distress. At this 
time they wrote and used in their churches, all that part 
of the litany which begins with the Lord's prayer, and 
ends with the prayer of St. Chrysostom. Thus you see 
how venerably ancient are many of our forms, and how 
little they merit that contempt which ignorant people 
pour upon them. Very holy men (men now we have 
every reason to believe in heaven) composed them, and 
they have been used from age to age ever since, in our 
churches, with but few alterations. But you will sav 
they were used by the Roman Catholics, who are a very 
superstitious and bigoted set of people. This is no ob- 
jection at all, because the Roman Catholics were not 
always so bad, and what is a proof of this is, that there 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 157 

once was no other religion in the world ; and we cannot 
think that church very wicked, which Oxod chose, once, 
to make the sole guardian of his truth. There have been 
many excellent and pious men among the Roman Cath- 
olics, even at the time their public faith was corrupted. 

You may have heard of the reformation : you know 
it was brought about by Luther and Calvin, in the six- 
teenth century, about 1536. Now Calvin is the founder 
of the sect of Independants, such as those who meet at 
Castlegate, yet he had a hand in framing the liturgy, 
which, with alterations, we now use, and he selected it 
in part from the liturgy of the Roman church ; because 
they had received it from the primitive christians, who 
were more immediately taught by the apostles. The 
reformation means that change in religion, which was 
brought about, as said before, by Luther and Calvin, in 
consequence of the abuses and errors which had crept 
into the Romish church. 

You may possibly think the responses, or answers of 
the clerk and people, rather ridiculous. This absurdity, 
however, generally consists more in the manner than in 
the thing. They were intended to be pronounced aloud 
by the people, and were used as a means to keep their 
attention awake, and show their sincerity. At the time 
this form was invented, not one man in five 01 six hun- 
dred could read ; and these repetitions answered another 
purpose, of fixing important ejaculations and sentences 
in their minds. In these days the same necessity does 
not exist ; but we still retain the form on account of its 
other advantages, and through reverence of such an 
antiquity, as almost vouches for its being acceptable to 
God, who has permitted it to be used by liie wisest and 
best of men for so long a period. 

I think I have now nearly tired you. Pray write to 
me soon, and believe me, 

My dear James, 

Your very affectionate Brother, 
H. K. White. 



1^ 



cS LETTERS OF 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

St. Jolm'ri College, Cambridge, Nov. 10, 1805- 

My dear Bex, 

***** 

The reasons why I said mathematical studies did not 
agree with me, were these — that I am more inclined to 
classical pursuits, and that, considering what disadvan- 
tages I lie under in being deaf, I am afraid I cannot ex- 
cel in them. I have at present entirely laid them aside, 
as I am reading for the university scholarship, which 
will soon be vacant : there are expected to be thirteen 
or fourteen candidates, some of whom are of great note 
from Eton ; and I have as much expectation of gaining 
it, as of being elected supreme magus over the mysteries 
of Mithra. The scholarship is of no value in itself ade- 
quate to the labor of reading for it, but it is the greatest 
classical honor in the university, and is a pretty sure 
road to a fellowship. My classical abilities here have 
attracted some attention, and my Latin Themes, in par- 
ticular, have drawn forth inquiries from the tutors as to 
the place of my education. The r3;ison why I have de- 
termined to sit for the scholarship is this, that to have 
simply been a candidate for it establishes a man's char- 
acter, as many of the first classics in the university have 

failed of it. 

* * * * 

I begin now to feel at home in my little room, and I 
wish you were here to see how snugly I sit by my blaz- 
ing lire in the cold evenings. College certainly has 
.charms, though I have a few things rankling at my 
(heart which will not let me be quite happy. Ova, Ora, 
pro me. 

This last sentence of mine is of a curious tendency, 
to be sure ; for who is there of mortals who has not 
something rankling at his heart, which will not let him 
be happy ? 

It is curious to observe the different estimations two 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 159 

men make of one another's happiness. Each of them 
surveys the external appearance of the other's situation, 
and comparing them with the secret disquieting circum- 
stances of his own, thinks him happier ; and so it is 
that all the world over, be we favored as we may, there 
is always something which others have, and which we 
ourselves have not, necessary to the completion of our 
felicity. I think, therefore, upon the whole, there is no 
such thing as positive happiness in this world ; and a 
man can only be deemed felicitous, as he is in comparison 
less affected with positive evil. It is our business, there- 
fore, to support ourselves under existing ills, with the 
anticipation of future blessing. Life, with all its bitters, 
is a draught soon drunk ; and though we have many 
changes to fear on this side the grave, beyond it we 
know of none. 

Your life and mine are now marked out ; and our 
calling is of such a nature, that it ill becomes us to be 
too much affected with circumstances of an external 
nature. It is our duty to bear our evils with dignified 
silence. Considering our superior consolations, they 
are small in comparison with those of others ; and 
though they may cast a sadness both over our hearts 
and countenances, which time may not easily remove, 
yet they must not interfere with our active duties, nor 
affect our conduct towards others, except by opening our 
heart with warmer sympathy to their woes, their wants, 
and miseries. 

As you have begun in your religious path, my be- 
loved friend, persevere. Let your love to the crucified 
continue as pure as it was at first, while your zeal is 
more tempered, and your piety more rational and ma- 
ture. I hope yet to live to see you a pious and respected 
parish priest : as for me — I hope I shall do my duty as 
I have strength and ability, and I hope I shall always 
continue, what I now profess myself, 

Your friend and brother, 

H. K. White. 



I Go LETTERS OF 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St. John's, Cambridge, lOtfi Dec, 1805. 

Dear Neville, 

I am so truly hurt that you should again complain 
of my long silence, that I cannot refrain from sending 
this by the post, although I shall send you a parcel to- 
morrow. The reason of my not having sent you the 
cravats sooner, is the difficulty I have found in getting 
them together, since part were in the hands of my laun- 
dress, and part dirty. I do not know whether you will 
find them right, as my linen is in other respects deficient, 
and I have a cause at issue with my washerwoman on 
that score. This place is, literally, a den of thieves ; 
my bed-maker, whom we call a gyp, from a Greek word 
signifying a vulture, runs away with everything he can 
lay his hands on, and when he is caught, says he only 
borrows them. He stole a sack of coals a week, as reg- 
ularly as the week came, when first I had fires ; but I 
have stopped the run of this business, by a monstrous 
large padlock, which is hung to the staple of the bin. 
His next trick was to bring me four candles for a pound 
instead of six ; and this trade he carried on for some 
time, until I accidentally discovered the trick : he then 
said he had always brought me right until that time, 
and that then he had brought me fives, but had given 
Mr. II. (a man on the same staircase) one, because he 
thought he understood I had borrowed one of him : on 
inquiring of Mr. H., he had not given him one according 
to his pretence ; but the gentleman was not caught yet, 
for he declared he had lent one to the bed-maker of Lord 
B. in the rooms below. His neatest trick is going to the 
grocer every now and then for articles in your name, 
which he converts to his own use. I have stopped 
him here too, by keeping a check-book. Tea, sugar, 
and pocket-handkerchiefs are his natural perquisites, 
and I verily believe he will soon be filling his canister 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



6i 



out of mine before iny face. There is no redress for all 
this ; for if you change, you are no better off ; they are 
all alike. They know you regard them as a pack of 
thieves, and their only concern is to steal so dexterously 
that they may not be confronted with direct proof. 
* * * * 

Do not be surprised at any apparent negligence in 
my letters ; my time has so many calls for it, that half 
my duties are neglected. Our college examination comes 
on next Tuesday, and it is of the utmost moment that I 
acquit myself well there. A month after will follow the 
scholarship examination. My time therefore, at present, 
will scarcely permit the performance of my promise with 
respect to the historical papers, but 1 have them in mind, 
and I am much bent on perfecting them in a manner 
superior to their commencement. 

I would fain write to my brother James, who must 
by no means think I forget him ; but I fear I shall see 
him before I write to him, on the accounts above stated. 
The examination for the scholarship is distinct from that 
of our college, which is a very important one ; and 
while I am preparing for the one, I necessarily neglect 
the other. 

I wish very much to hear from you on religious 
topics ; and remember, that although my leisure at pres- 
ent will not allow me to write to you all I wish, yet it 
will be the highest gratification to me to read your let- 
ters, especially when they relate to your christian 
progress. I beseech you not to relax, as you value 
your peace of mind, and the repose of a dying bed. 
I wish you would take in the Christian Observer, 
which is a cheap work, and will yield you much profit- 
able amusement. I have it here for nothing, and can 
send you up some of the numbers, if you like. 

Remember, and let my mother know, that I have no 
chance for the university scholarship, and that I only sit 
for the purpose of letting the University know that I am 
a decent proficient in the languages. 

11 



IQ2 tftT™* nj? - 



There is one just vacant, which I can certainly get 
but I should be obliged to go to Peter-house in conse 
quence, which will not be advisable ; but I must make 
inquiries about it. I speak with certainty on this sub- 
ject, because it is restricted to candidates who are in 
their first year, amongst whom I should probably be 
equal to any. The others are open to bachelors. 
* * * * 



T 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St John's, December 16th, 1805. 

Dear Neville, 

In consequence of an alteration in my plans, I shall 
have the pleasure of seeing you at the latter end of this 
week, and I wish you so to inform my aunt. The rea- 
son of this change is this, that I have over-read myself, 
and I find it absolutely necessary to take some relax- 
ation and to give up study entirely, for a short time, in 
order that I may go on better hereafter. 

This has been occasioned by our college lectures, 
which I had driven too late, on account of my being oc- 
cupied in preparations for the University scholarship 
examination, and then I was obliged to fag so hard for 
the college lectures, as the time drew on, that I could 
take no exercise. Thus I soon knocked myself up, and 
I now labor under a great general relaxation, and much 
nervous weakness. 

Change of air and place will speedily remove these 
symptoms, and I shall certainly give up the University 
scholarship, rather than injure my health. 

Do not mention these things to my mother, as she 
will make it a cause of unnecessary uneasiness. 
* * * * 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 163 

TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St. John's, Dec. 19th, 1805. 
Dear Neville, 

I was sorry to receive your letter, desiring me to defer 
my journey ; and I am sorry to be forced to tell you the 
reason of my coming to town sooner than you wish me. 
I have had an attack of my old nervous complaint, and 
my spirits have been so wretchedly shattered, that my 
surgeon says I shall never be well till I have removed 
somewhere, where I can have society and amusement. 
It is a very distressing thing to be ill in college, where 
you have no attendance, and very little society. Mr. 
Catton, my tutor, has prevailed upon me, by pressing 
wishes, to go into the hall to be examined with the 
men of my year. I have gone through two examina- 
tions, and I have one to come : after that is* over, he 
told me I had better go to my friends directly, and re- 
lieve myself with complete relaxation from study. Under 
these circumstances, the object of my journey to London 
will be answered, by the mere residence in my aunt's 
family, and by a cessation from reading. While I am 
here, I am wretched ; I cannot read, the slightest ap- 
plication makes me faint ; I have very little society, and 
that is quite a force upon my friends. I am determined, 
therefore, to leave this place on Saturday morning, and 
you may rest satisfied that the purpose of my journey 
will be fully accomplished by the prattle of my aunt's 
little ones, and her care. I am not an invalid, since I 
have no sickness or ailment, but I am weak and low- 
spirited, and unable to read. The last is the greatest 
calamity I can experience of a worldly nature. My mind 
preys upon itself. Had it not been for Leeson, of Clare 
Hall, I could not have gone through this week. I have 
been examined twice, and almost without looking over 
the subjects, and I have given satisfaction, but I am 




1 64 LETTERS OF 



obliged to be kept up by strong medicines to endure this 
exertion, which is very great. 

I am happy, however, to tell you, I am better; and 
Mr. Farish, the surgeon, says, a few days will re-estab- 
lish me when I get into another scene, and into society. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

London, Dec. 2<Lth, 1805. 

My Dear Mother, 

You will, no doubt, have been surprised at not hav- 
ing heard from me for so long a time, and you will be no 
less so to find that I am writing this at my aunt's, in 
this far-famed city. I have been so much taken up with 
our college examinations c f late, that I could not find 
time to write even to you, and I am now come to town, 
in order to give myself every relaxation and amusement 
I can ; for I had read so much at Cambridge, that my 
health was rather affected, and I was advised to give 
myself the respite of a week or a fortnight, in order to 
recover strength. I arrived in town on Saturday night, 
and should have written yesterday, in order to remove 
any uneasiness you might feel on my account, but there 
is no post on Sunday. 

I have now to communicate some agreeable intelli- 
gence to you. Last week being the close of the Michael- 
mas term, and our college examination, our tutor, who 
is a very great man, sent for me, and told me he was 
sorry to hear I had been ill : he understood I was low- 
spirited, and wished to know whether I frightened my- 
self about college expenses. I told him, that they did 
contribute some little to harass me, because I was as 
yet uncertain what the bills of my first year would 
amount to. His answer was to this purpose: "Mr. 
White, I beg you will not trouble yourself on this sub" 
ject : your emoluments will be very great, very great 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 165 

— — ■ — - 

indeed, and I will take care your expenses are not very 
burthensome — leave that to me ! " He advised me to go 
to my friends, and amuse myself with a total cessation 
from reading. After our college examination (which 
lasted six days) was over, he sent for me again, and re- 
peated what he had said before about the expenses of the 
college ; and he added, that if I went on as I had begun, 
and made myself a good scholar, I might rely on being 
provided for by the college ; for if the county should be 
full, and they could not elect me a fellow, they would 
recommend me to another college, where they would 
be very glad to receive a clever man from their hands ; 
or, at all events, they could always get a young man a 
situation as a private tutor in a nobleman's family ; or 
could put him into some handsome way of preferment. 
" We make it a rule (he said) of providing for a clever 
man, whose fortune is small ; and you may therefore 
rest assured, Mr. White, that after you have taken your 
degree, you will be provided with a genteel competency 
by the college.'''' He begged I would be under no appre- 
hensions on these accounts : he shook hands with me 
very affectionately, and wished me a speedy recovery. 
These attentions from a man like the tutor of St. John's 
are very marked; and Mr. Catton is well known for 
doing more than he says. I am sure, after these assur. 
ances from a principal of so respectable a society as St. 
John's, I have nothing mure to fear ; and I hope you 
will never repine on my account again — according to 
every appearance, my lot in life is certain. 
* * * - * 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

London, Xmas, 1805. 

My dear Ben\ 

You would have had no reason to complain of my 
long silence, had I preferred my self-justification to your 



1 66 



LETTERS OF 



ease. I wrote you a letter, which now lies in my drawer 
at St. John's, but in such a weak state of body, and in 
so desponding and comfortless a tone of mind, that I 
knew it would give you pain, and therefore I chose not 
to send it. I have indeed been ill • but, thanks to God, 
I am recovered. My nerves were miserably shattered 
by over-application, and the absence of all that could 
amuse, and the presence of many things which weighed 
heavy upon my spirits. When I ound myself too ill to 
read, and too desponding to endure my own reflections, 
I discovered that it is really a miserable thing to be des- 
titute of the soothing and supporting hand when nature 
most needs it. I wandered up and down from one man's 
room to another, and from one college to another ; im- 
ploring society, a little conversation, and a little relief 
of the burthen which pressed upon my spirits • and I am 
sorry to say, that those who, when I was cheerful and 
lively, sought my society with avidity, now, when I act- 
ually needed conversation, were too busy to grant it. 
Our college examination was then approaching, and I 
perceived with anguish that I had read for the univer- 
sity scholarship until I had barely time to get up our 
private subjects, and that as I wasnoAv too ill to read, all 

I hope of getting through the examination with decent* 
respectability was at an end. This was an additional 
grief. I went to our tutor, with tears in my eyes, and 
told him I must absent myself from the examination ; a 
step which would have precluded me from a station 
amongst the prizemen until the second year. He earn- 
estly entreated me to run the risk. My surgeon gave me 
strong stimulants and supporting medicines during the 
examination week, and I passed, I believe, one of the 
most respectable examinations amongst them. As soon 
as ever it was over, I left Cambridge by the advice of my 
surgeon and tutor, and I feel myself now pretty strong. 
I have given up the thought of sitting for the university 
scholarship in consequence of my illness, as the course 
of my reading was effectually broken. In this place I 



have been much amused, and have been received with 
an attention in the literary circles which I neither ex- 
pected nor deserved. But this does not affect me as it 
once would have done ; my views are widely altered, 
and I hope I shall in time learn to lay my whole heart 
at the foot of the cross. 

I have only one thing more to tell you of about my 
illness ; it is that I have found in a young man, with 
whom I had little acquaintance, that kind care and at- 
tention, which I looked for in vain from those who pro- 
fessed themselves my nearest friends. At a time when 

could not find leisure to devote a single evening to 

his sick friend, even when he earnestly implored it, 
William Leeson constantly, and even against my wishes, 
devoted every evening to the relieving of my melancholy, 
and the enlivening of my solitary hours. With the 
most constant and affectionate assiduity, he gave me 
my medicines, administered consolation to my broken 
spirits; and even put me to bed. 



TO MR. P. THOMPSON. 

London, 1st January, 1806. 

Sir, 

I owe it both to my feelings and my duty, that I 
should thank you for the kind inquiries you have 
thought it worth while to make concerning me and my 
affairs. I have just learned the purport of a letter re- 
ceived from you by Mr. Robinson, the bookseller ; and. 
it is a pleasing task to me, at the same time that I ex- 
press my sense of your benevolent concern in my behalf, 
to give you, myself, the information you require. 

The little volume which, considered as the produc- 
tion of a very young man, may have interested you, has 
not had a very great sale, although it may have had as 
nmoh oountciicuitu db il CUibm'Vml. The last rep ort 1 re- 



1 68 LETTERS OF 



ceived from the publishers, was 450 sold. So far it has 
•answered the expectations I had formed from it, that it 
has procured me the acquaintance, and perhaps I may- 
say the friendship, of men equally estimable for their 
talents and their virtues. Rewarded by their counte- 
nance, I am by no means dissatisfied with my little book ; 
indeed, I think its merits have, on the whole, rather 
been over-rated than otherwise, which I attribute to the 
lenity so readily afforded to the faults of youth, and to 
the promptitude with which benevolent minds give en- 
couragement where encouragement seems to be wanted. 

With regard to my personal concerns, I have suc- 
ceeded in placing myself at Cambridge, and have 
already kept one term. My college is St. John's, where, 
in the rank of sizar, I shall probably be enabled to live 
almost independently of external support ; but should I 
need that support, I have it in my power to draw on a 
friend, whose name I am not permitted to mention, for 
any sum not exceeding 30Z. per annum. With habits of 
frugality, I shall never need this sum ; so that I am 
quite at ease with respect to my college expenses, and 
at full leisure to pursue my studies with a free and 
vacant mind. 

I am at present in the great city, where I have come, 
in consequence of a little injudicious application, a 
suitor to health, variety, and amusement. In a few 
days I shall return to Cambridge, where (should you 
ever pass that way) I hope you will not forget that I re- 
side there three-fourths of the year. It would, indeed, 
give me pleasure to say personally how much I am 
obliged by your inquiries. 

I hope you will put a favorable construction both on 
the minuteness and the length of this letter ; and per- 
mit me to subscribe myself, 

Sir, very thankfully and obediently, yours, 

H. K. White. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 169 



TO HIS AUNT. 

St. John's, Cambridge. Jan. 6, 1806. 
My dear Aunt, 

I am once more settled in my room at Cambridge ; 
but I am grown so idle and so luxurious since I have 
been under your hands that I cannot read with half my 
usual diligence. 

I hope you concluded the Christmas holidays on Mon- 
day with the customary glee, and I hope my uncle was 
well enough to partake of your merriment. You must 
now begin your penitential days after so much riot and 
feasting ; and with your three little prattlers around 
you, I am sure your evenings will flow pleasantly by 
your own fire-side. Visiting and gayety are very well 
by way of change, but there is no enjoyment so lasting 
as that of one's own family. Elizabeth will soon be old 
enough to amuse you with her conversation, and I 
trust you will take every opportunity of teaching her to 
put the right value on things, and to exercise her own 
good sense. It is amazing how soon a child may become 
a real comfort to its mother, and how much even young 
minds will form habits of affection towards those who 
treat them like reasonable beings, capable of seeing the 
right and wrong of themselves. A very little girl may 
be made to understand that there are some things which 
are pleasant and amusing, which are still less worthy 
of attention than others more disagreeable and painful. 
Children are, in general, fond of little ornaments of 
dress, especially females • and though we may allow 
them to be elevated with their trifling splendors, yet we 
should not forget to remind them that, although people 
may admire their dress, yet they will admire them much 
more for their good sense, sweetness of^temper, and gen- 
erosity of disposition. Children are very quick-sighted 
to discern whether you approve of them, and they are 



170 LETTERS OF 



very proud of your approbation when they think you 
bestow it : we should therefore be careful how we praise 
them, and for what. If we praise their dress, it should 
be slightly, and as if it were a matter of very small im- 
portance ; but we should never let any mark of consid- 
eration, or goodness of heart, in a child, pass by without 
some token of approbation. Still we must never praise 
a child too much, nor too warmly, for that would beget 
vanity ; and when praise is moderately yet judiciously 
bestowed, a child values it more, because it feels that it 
is just. I don't like punishments. You will never tor- 
ture a child into duty ; but a sensible child will dread 
\ the frown of a judicious mother, more than all the rods, 
; dark rooms, and scolding schoolmistresses in the uni- 
verse. We should teach our children to make friends 
j of us, to communicate all their thoughts to us ; and, 
'while their innocent prattle will amuse us, we shall find 
3 many opportunities of teaching them important truths, 
almost without knowing it. 

I admire all your little ones, and I hope to see Eliza- 
beth one day an accomplished and sensible girl. Give 
my love to them, and tell them not to forget their cousin 
Henry, Avho wants a housekeeper at college ! 

Though I have written so long a letter, I am, indeed, 
offended with you, and I dare say you know the reason 

ivery well. 

* * * * 

P.S. Whenever yeu are disposed to write a letter, 
think of me. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

St. John's, February Ylth, 1806. 
!klY DEAR BEjST, 

* * * # 

Do not think that I am reading hard ; I believe it is 
y vuii with lliuil. I liavt had a. muiii ' l ' midli (Jl lliy °^ 



all, 



complaint within this last four or five days, which has 
half unnerved me for everything. The state of my 
health is really miserable ; I am well and lively in the 
morning, and overwhelmed with nervous horrors in the 
evening. I do not know how to proceed with regard to 
my studies — a very slight overstretch of the mind in the 
day-time occasions me not only a sleepless night, but a 
night of gloom and horror. Tne systole and diastole of 
my heart seem to be playing at ball, — the stake — my 
life. I can only say the game is not yet decided. I 
allude to the violence of the palpitation. 

I am going to mount the Gog-magog hills this morn- 
ing in quest of a good night's sleep. The Gog-magog 
hills for my body, and the Bible for my mind, are my 
only medicines. I am sorry to say that neither are quite 
adequate. Qui, igitur, danclum est vitiof Milxi pror- 
sus. I hope, as the summer comes, my spirits (which 
have been with the swallows a winter's journey) will 
come with it. When my spirits are restored, my health 
will be restored — the foils mali lies there. Give me se- 
renity and equability of mind, and all will be well 
there. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St John's, 11th March, 1806. 

Dear Neville, 

* * * * 

I hope you read Mason on Self-knowledge now and 
then. It is a useful book ; and it will help you greatly 
in framing your spirit to the ways of humility, piety, 
and peace. Reading, occasional meditation, and con- 
stant prayer, will infallibly guide you to happiness, as 
far as we can be happy here ; and will help you on your 
way to that blessed abode, where I hope, ardently hope, 
we shall all meet hereafter in the assembly of the saints. 



172 LETTERS OF 



Go coolly and deliberately, but determinately, to the 
work of your salvation. Do nothing here in a hurry ; 
deliberate upon everything ; take your steps cautiously, 
yet with a certain reliance on the mercy of your Oxod 
and Saviour ; and wherever you see your duty lie, lose 
no time in acting up to it. This is the only way to ar- 
rive at comfort in your Christian career ; and the con- 
stant observance of this maxim will, with the assistance 
of Grod, smooth your way with quietness and repose, 
even to the brink of eternity, and beyond the gulf that 
bounds it. 

I had almost dropped the idea of seeing Nottingham 
this next long vacation, as my stay in Cambridge may 
be importantly useful ; but I think, now, I shall go 
down for my health's, and more particularly for my 
mother's sake, whom my presence will comfort, and per- 
haps help. I should be glad to moor all my family in 
the harbor of religious trust, and in the calm seas of re- 
ligious peace. These concerns are apt, at times, to 
escape me ; but they now press much upon my heart, 
and I think it is my first duty to see that my family are 
safe in the most important of all affairs. 
* * * * 



TO THE REV. J. PLUMBTRE. 

St. John's, March 12th, 1806. 

Dear Sir, 

I hope you will excuse the long delay which I have 
made in sending the song. I am afraid I have trespass- 
ed on your patience, if indeed so unimportant a subject 
can have given you any thought at all. If you think it 
worth while to send the song to your publisher, I should 
prefer the omission of the writer's name, as the insertion 
of it would only be a piece of idle ostentation, and 
answer no end. My name will neither give credit to 
the verses nor the verses confer honor on my name. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1 73 

It will give me great pleasure to hear that your 

labors have been successful in the town of , where, 

I fear, much is to be done. I am one of those who think 
that the love of virtue is not sufficient to make a virtu- 
ous man ; for the love of virtue is a mere menta'i pref- 
erence of the beautiful to the deformed ; and we see but 
too often that immediate gratification outweighs the dic- 
tates of our judgment. If men could always perform 
their duty as well as they can discern it, or if they could 
attend to thei-r real interests as well as they can see 
them, there would be little occasion for moral instruc- 
tion. Sir Richard Steele, who wrote like a saint, and 
who, in his " Christian Hero." shows the strongest 
marks of a religious and devout heart, lived, notwith- 
standing all this, a drunkard and a debauchee. And 
what can be the cause of this apparent contradiction ? 
Was it that he had not strength of mind to act up to his 
views ? Then a man's salvation may depend on strength 
of intellect ! Or does not this rather show that superior 
motives are wanting ? That assistance is yet necessary, 
when the ablest of men has done his utmost ? If then 
such aid be necessary, how can it be obtained? — by a 
virtuous life ? — Surely not : because, to live really a vir- 
tuous life, implies this aid to have been first given. We 
are told in Scripture, how it may he attained, namely, 
by humble trust in the Lord Jesus Christ, as our aton- 
ing sacrifice. This, therefore, is the foundation of re- 
ligious life, and as such, ought to be the fundamental 
principle of religious instruction. This is the test of our 
obedience, the indispensable preliminary before we can 
enjoy the favor of God. What, therefore, can we urge 
with more propriety from the pulpit than faith ?— to 
preach morality does not include the principle of faith 
—to preach faith includes every branch of morality, at 
the same time that it affords it its present sanctions, and 
its strongest incitements. 

I am afraid I have trespassed on your patience, and 
I must beg of you to excuse the badness of the writing, 



LETTERS OF 



for which I have the plea of illness. I hope your health 
is yet firm, and that Grod will in mercy prosper your en- 
deavors for the good of your flock. 
I am, dear Sir, 

Very respectfully yours, 

H. K. White. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

St. John's, Cambridge, April, 1806. 

Dear Mother, 

* * * * 

I am quite unhappy to see you so anxious on my ac- 
count, and also that you should think me neglectful of 
you. Believe me, my dear mother, my thoughts are 
often with you. Never do I lay myself on my bed, be- 
fore you have all passed before me in my prayers ; and 
one of my first earthly wishes is to make you comfort- 
able, and provide that rest and quiet for your mind 
which you so much need : and never fear but I shall 
have it in my power some time or other. My prospects 
wear a flattering appearance. I shall be almost sure of 
a fellowship somewhere or other, and then, if I get a 
curacy in Cambridge, I shall have a clear income of 
170Z. per annum, besides my board and lodging, perhaps 
more. If I do not reside in Cambridge, I shall have 
some quiet parsonage, where you may come and spend 
the summer months. Maria and Kate will then be 
older, and you will be less missed. On all accounts you 
have much reason to indulge happier dreams. My 
health is considerably better. Only do you take as much 
care of yours as I do of mine, and all will be well. I 
exhort, and intreat, and beseech you, as you love me, 
and all your children, that you will take your bitters 
without ceasing. As you Avish me to pay regard to your 
exhortations, attend to this. 



HENR Y KIRKE WHITE: 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

St. John's, April, 1806. 
Dear Mother, 

I am a good deal surprised at not having heard from 
you in answer to my last. You will be surprised to hear 
the purport of my present letter ; which is no less than 
that I shall spend the ensuing Easter vacation in Not- 
tingham. The reasons which have induced me to make 
this so wide an alteration in my plan, are these : I have 
had some symptoms of the return of my old complaint, 
and both my doctor and tutor think I had better take a 
fortnight's relaxation at home. I hope you will not 
think I have neglected exercise, since I have taken more 
this term than I ever did before ; but I shall enlarge my 
hours of recreation still more, since I find it necessary, 
for my health's sake, so to do. 

You need not give yourself any uneasiness as to my 
health, for I am quite recovered. I was chiefly afflicted 
with sleeplessness and palpitations of the heart, which 
symptoms have now disappeared, and I am quite re- 
stored to my former good health. My journey will re- 
establish me completely, and it will give me no small 
pleasure to see you after so long an absence from home. 
I shall be very idle while I am at Nottingham ; I shall 
only amuse myself with teaching Maria and Kate. 



(supposed to be addressed.) 

TO MRS. WEST. ■ 

I have stolen your first volume of Letters from the 
chimney-piece of a college friend, and I have been so 
much pleased both with the spirit, conduct, and style of 



-jG LETTERS OF 



the work, that I cannot refrain from writing to tell you 
so. I shall read the remaining volumes immediately ; 
but as I am at this moment just in that desultory mood 
when a man can best write a letter, I have determined 
not to delay what, if I defer at all, I shall probably not 
do at all. 

Well, then, my dear Madam, although I have insidi- 
ously given you to understand that I write to tell you 
how much I approve your work, I will be frank enough 
to tell you likewise, that I think, in one point, it is 
faulty ; and that if I had not discovered what I con- 
sider to be a defect in the book, I should probably not 
have written for the mere purpose of declaiming on its 
excellences. 

Start not, Madam ; it is in that very point whereon 
you have bestowed most pains, that I think the work is 
faulty — Religion. If I mistake not, there will be some 
little confusion of idea detected, if we examine this part 
narrowly : and as I am not quite idle enough to write 
my opinions without giving the reasons for them, I will 
endeavor to explain why I think so. 

Religion, then, Madam, I conceive to be the service 
a creature owes to his Creator ; and I take it for grant- 
ed, that service implies some self-denial, and some labor ; 
for if it did not involve something unpleasing to our- 
selves, it would be a duty Ave should all of necessity per- 
form. Well, then, if religion call for self-denial, there 
must be some motive to induce men voluntarily to un- 
dergo such privations as may be consequent on a re- 
ligious life, and those motives must be such as affect 
either the present state of existence, or some other future 
state of existence. Certainly, then, those motives which 
arise from the expectation of a future state of existence, 
must, in reality, be infinitely more important than those 
which are founded in temporal concerns, although, to 
mankind, the immediate presence of temporal things 
may outweigh the distant apprehension of the future. 
Granting, therefore, that the future world is the main 



J 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 177 

object of our religious exercises, it will follow, that they 
are the most important concerns of a man's life, and that 
every other consideration is light and trifling in the com- 
parison. For the world to come is everlasting, while the 
present world is but very short. Foolish, then, indeed, 
and short-sighted must that creature be, which can pre- 
fer the conveniences and accommodations of the pres- 
ent, to the happiness of the eternal future. 

All Christians, who undertake to lay down a chart 
for the young and inexperienced, by which they may 
steer with security through the ocean of life, will be ex- 
pected to make religion a prominent feature on the can- 
vas ; and that too, not only by giving it a larger space, 
but by enforcing the superiority of this consideration to 
every other. Now this is what I humbly conceive you 
have not altogether done ; and I think, indeed, if I be 
competent to judge, you have failed in two points ; — in 
making religion only a subordinate consideration to a 
young man, and in not denning distinctly the essentials 
of religion. 

I would ask you, then, in what way you so impress 
religion on the mind of your son, as one would expect 
that person Avould impress it, who was conscious that it 
was of the first importance. Do you instruct him to 
turn occasionally, when his leisure may permit, to pious 
and devout meditation ? Do you direct him to make re- 
ligion the one great aim and end of his being ? Do you 
exhort him to frequent private and earnest prayer to 
the Spirit of Holiness, that he would sanctify all his 
doings ? Do you teach him that the praise or the cen- 
sure, the admiration, or the contempt, of the world, is 
of little importance, so as his heart be right before the 
Great Judge ? Do you tell him that, as his reason now 
opens, he should gradually withdraw from the gayer and 
occasionally more unlicensed diversions of the world — 
the ball-room, the theatre, and the public concert, in 
order that he may abstract his mind more from the too- 
fascinating delights of life, an d fit himself for the new 
12 



178 LETTERS OF 



scene of existence, which will, sooner or later, open upon 
his view ? No, Madam, 1 think you do not do this. 
You tell him there is a deal of enthusiasm in persons 
who, though they mean well, are over-strict in their re- 
ligious performances. You tell him, that assemblies, 
dances, theatres, are elegant amusements, though you 
couple the fine arts with them, which I am sorry to 
see in such company. I, too, am enthusiastically at- 
tached to the tine arts. Poetry, painting, and music, 
are amongst my most delicious and chastest pleasures ; 
and happy, indeed, do I feel, when I can make even 
these contribute to the great end, and draw my soul 
from its sphere, to fix it on its Maker and Redeemer. 
1 am fond, too, of tragedy ; and though I do not find 
it with so much purity and chastity in Shakespeare as 
in the old Greek dramatists, yet I know how to appreci- 
ate its beauties in him too. Besides these, I have a thou- 
sand other amusements of the most refined nature, 
without either theatres, balls, or card-tables. The 
theatre is not in itself an immoral institution, but in its 
present state it is ; and I feel much for anuncorrupted, 
frank lad of fourteen, who is permitted to visit this stew 
of licentiousness, impudence, and vice. Your plan seems 
to me this : — Teach a boy to lead an honest, upright 
life, and to do his duty, and he will gain the good-will 
of God by the very tenor of his actions. This is, indeed, 
an easy kind of religion, for it involves no self-denial ; 
but true religion does involve self-denial. The inference 
is obvious. I say it involves no self-denial j because a 
well-educated, sensible lad will see so many inconveni- 
ences in vicious indulgences, that he will choose the 
virtuous by a natural effort of the understanding ; and 
so, according to this system, he will ensure heaven by 
the soundness of his policy, and the rectitude of his un- 
derstanding. 

Admitting this to be a true doctrine, Christianity has 
been of no material service to mankind ; and the son of 
God might have spared his blood: for the heathens 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 179 

knew all this, and not only knew it, but many of them 
put it into practice. What then has Christianity done? 
But the Scripture teaches us the reverse of this : it 
teaches us to give God our whole heart, to live to him, 
to pray continually, and to fix our affections, not on 
things temporal, but on things eternal. Now, I ask you, 
whether, without any sophistry, or any perversion of 
the meaning of words, you can reconcile this with your 
religious instruction to your son? 

I think, likewise, that you do not define the essen- 
tials of religion distinctly. We are either saved by the 
atonement of Jesus Christ, or we are not ; and if we 
are, then all men are necessarily saved, or some are ne- 
cessarily not saved ; and if some are not saved, it 
must be from causes either existing in the individ- 
uals themselves, or from causes existing in the econ- 
omy of God's dispensations. Now, Madam, we are 
told that Jesus Christ died for all ; but we grant that 
all are not saved. Why then are some not saved ? It 
is because they do not act in a manner worthy of God's 
favor! Then a man's salvation depends upon his ac- 
tions. But we are told in Scripture, that it does not de- 
pend on his actions — " By faith are ye saved, without 
the works of the law : " therefore it either must depend 
on some other effort of the creature, or on the will of 
the Creator. I will not dispute the question of Calvin- 
ism with you ; I will grant that Calvinism is indefen- 
sible ; but this all must concede who believe the Scrip- 
tures — that we are to be saved by faith only through 
Jesus Christ. I ask, therefore, whether you haye 
taught this to your son ; and I ask whether there is one 
trait in your instructions in common with the humbling, 
self-denying religion taught by the Apostles, by the 
homilies of our Church, and by all the reformers ? The 
chief argument of the latter against the Romish church, 
was their asserting the validity of works. Now, what 
idea must your son have of Christian faith ? You say ? 
that even /Shakespeare's debauchees were believers ; and 



I So LETTERS OF 



he is given to understand, that he is a good Christian, 
if he do his duty to his master and fellows, go to church 
every Sunday, and keep clear of enthusiasm. And what 
has Jesus Christ to do with your system ? and where is 
W\dX faith banished, of which every page of Scripture is 
full? Can this be right? "Closet devotion" is the 
means of attaining faith ; and humble prayer is the true 
means of arriving at fervency in religion, without en- 
thusiasm. You condemn Socinianisin ; but I ask you 
where Jesus Christ appears in your scheme, and why the 
influence of the Holy Grhost, and even his names, are 
banished from it ? 



TO MR. P. THOMPSON. 

Nottingham, April 8lh, 1806. 

Dear Sir, 

I sincerely beg your pardon for my ungrateful disre- 
gard of your polite letter. The intervening period has 
been so much taken up, on the one hand, by ill health, 
and on the other, by occupations of the most indispen- 
sable kind, that I have neglected almost all my friends, 
and you amongst the rest. I am now at Nottingham, a 
truant from study, and a rejected votary at the shrine 
of Health ; a few days will bring me back to the mar- 
gin of the Cam, and bury me once more in the busy 
routine of college exercises. Before, however, I am 
again a man of bustle and occupation, I snatch a few 
moments to tell you how much I shall be gratified by 
your correspondence, and how greatly I think myself 
flattered by your esteeming mine worth asking for. 

The little sketch of your past occupations, and pres- 
ent pursuits, interested me. Cultivate with all assidu- 
ity, the taste for letters which you possess. It will be a 
source of exquisite gratification to you ; and if directed 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 151 

as it ought to be, and I hope as it will be directed , it 
will be more than gratification (if we understand pleas- 
ure alone by that word), since it will combine with it 
utility of the highest kind. If polite letters were merely 
instrumental in cheering the hours of elegant leisure, in 
affording refined and polished pleasures, uncontamina- 
ted with gross and sensual gratifications, they would 
still be valuable; but in a degree infinitely less than 
when they are considered as the handmaids of the vir- 
tues, the correctors as well as the adorners of society. 
But literature has, of late years, been prostituted to all 
the purposes of the bagnio. Poetry, in particular, ar- 
rayed in her most bewitching colors, has been taught 
to exercise the arts of the Leno, and to charm only that 
she may destroy. The muse, who once dipped her hardy 
wing in the chastest dews of Castalia, and spoke nothing 
but what had a tendency to confirm and invigorate the 
manly ardor of a virtuous mind, now breathes only the 
voluptuous languishings of the harlot, and, like the 
brood of Circe, touches her charmed chords with a grace ? 
that, while it ravishes the ear, deludes and beguiles the 
sense. I call to witness Mr. Moore, and the tribe of im- 
itators which his success has called forth, that my state- 
ment is true. Lord Strangford has trodden faithfully 

in the steps of his pattern. 

* * * * 

I hope, for the credit of poetry, that the good sense 
of the age will scout this insidious school ; and what 
may we not expect, if Moore and Lord Strangford apply 
themselves to a chaster muse ? They are both men of 
uncommon powers. You may remember the reign of 
Darwinian poetry, and the fopperies of Delia Crusca. To 
these succeeded the school of simplicity, in which 
Wordsworth, Southey, and Coleridge, are so deservedly 
eminent. I think that the new tribe of poets endeavor 
to combine these two opposite sects, and to unite rich- 
ness of language, and warmth of coloring, with simpli- 
city and pathos. They have certainly succeeded ; but 



1 82 LETTERS OF 



Moore unhappily wished to be a Catullus, and from him 
has sprung the licentiousness of the new school. Moore's 
poems and his translations will, I think, have more in- 
fluence on the female society of this kingdom, than 
the stage has had in its worst period, the reign of 
Charles II. Ladies are not ashamed of having the de- 
lectable Mr. Little on their toilette, which is a pretty 
good proof that his voluptuousness is considered as 
quite veiled by the sentimental garb in which it is clad. 
But voluptuousness is not the less dangerous for having 
some slight semblance of the veil of modesty. On the 
contrary, her fascinations are infinitely more powerful 
in this retiring habit, than when she boldly protrudes her- 
self on the gazer's eye, and openly solicits his attention. 
The broad indecency of Wycherley, and his cotempora- 
ries, was not half so dangerous as this insinuating and 
half-covered moc/^-delicacy, which makes use of the 
blush of modesty in order to heighten the charms of 
vice. 

I must conclude somewhat abruptly, by begging 
you will not punish my negligence towards you, by re- 
tarding the pleasure I shall receive from your answer. 

I am, very truly yours, 

H. K.White. 

Address to me, St. John's College, Cambridge. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St. John's, May, 1806. 

My Dear Neville, 

* * # * 

My long delayed and very anciently promised letter 
to Charles worth will reach him shortly. Tell him that 
I have written one to him in Latin, but that having torn 
the paper in two by mistake, I could not summon reso- 
lution to copy it. 

I was glad to hear of the eclat with which he dispu- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 183 

ted, and came off on so difficult a subject as the Nerves ; 
and I beg of him, if he have made any discoveries to 
communicate them to me, who, being persecuted by 
these same nerves, should be glad to have some better 
acquaintance with my invisible enemies. 



TO HIS SISTER. 

St. John's, June 25t7i. 1806. 

My Dear Sister, 

# * # # 

The intelligence you gave me of Mr. Forest's illness, 
&c, cannot affect me in any way whatever. The mas- 
tership of the school must be held by a clergyman ; 
and I very well recollect that he is restrained from hold- 
ing any curacy, or other ministerial office. The salary 
is not so large as you mention ; and if it were, the place 
would scarcely be an object to me ; for I am very cer- 
tain, that if I choose, when I have taken my degree, I 
may have half a dozen pupils, to prepare for the uni_ 
versify, with a salary of 100/. per annum, which would 
be more respectable, and more consonant to my habits 
and studies, than drilling the fry of a trading town, in 
learning which they do not know how to value. Latin 
and Greek are nothing like so much respected in Not- 
tingham as Wingate's Arithmetic. 

* * * * 

It is well for you that you can still enjoy the privi- 
lege of sitting under the sound of the gospel ; and the 
wants of others, in these respects, will, perhaps, teach 
you how to value the blessings. All our comforts, and 
almost all our hopes, here lie at the mercy of every suc- 
ceeding hour. Death is always at hand to bereave us 
of some dear connexion, or to snatch us away from those 
who may nied our counsel and protection. I do not 
see how any person, capable of reflection, can live easily 



1 84 LETTERS OF 



and fearlessly in these circumstances, unless he have a 
well-grounded confidence in the providing care of the 
Almighty, and a strong belief that his hand is in every 
event, and that it is a hand of mercy. The chances and 
changes of mortal life are so many and various, that a 
person cannot possibly fortify himself against the con- 
tingencies of futurity without some such hold as this, 
on which to repose amidst the contending gales of doubt 
and apprehension. This I say as affecting the present 
life : — our views of the future can never be secure, they 
can never be comfortable or calm without a solid faith 
in the Redeemer. Men may reason about the divine 
benevolence, the certainty of a future state, and the 
probable means of propitiating the Great Judge, but 
their speculations will only entangle them in the mazes 
of doubt, perplexity, and alarm, unless they found their 
hopes on that basis which shall outstand the tide of 
ages. If we take this away, the poor bark of mortality 
loses its only stay, and we steer at random, we know 
not how, Ave know not whither : the religion of Jesus 
Christ is strength to the weak, and wisdom to the un- 
wise. It requires no preparatives of learning or study, 
but is, if possible, more obvious and easy to the illiter- 
ate than to the erudite. No man, therefore, has any 
excuse if he neglect it. The way is plain before him, 
and he is invited to enter. He has only to kneel at the 
foot of the cross, and cry, with the poor publican, 
" Lord have mercy upon me, a miserable sinner." If 
he do this, and examine his own heart, and mortify th e 
body of sin within him, as far as he is able, humbly and 
earnestly imploring the assistance of Gfod's holy spirit, 
we cannot doubt but he will meet with the approbation 
and assistance of the Almighty. In this path we must 
all tread. In this path I hope that you, my dear sister, 
are now proceeding. You have children ; to whom 
can you commit them, should Providence call you 
hence, with more confidence than the meek and benev- 
olent Jesus ? What legacy can you leave them more 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 185 

certainly profitable than the prayers of a pious 
mother ? And, if taught by your example, as well as 
by your instructions, they should become themselves 
patterns of a holy and religious life, how sweetly will 
the evening of your days shine upon your head, as you 
behold them treading in those ways which you know, 
by experience, to be ways of pleasantness and peace ! I 
need not press this subject. I know you feel all 
that I say, and more than I can express. I only fear 
that the bustle of family cares, as well as many anxieties 
of mind on other accounts, should too much divert you 
from these important objects. Let me only remind you, 
that the prayers of trie afflicted are particularly accept- 
able to God. The sigh of the penitent is not too light 
to reach his ear. The eye of God is fixed as intently 
upon your soul, at all times, as it is upon the revolu- 
tion of the heavenly bodies, and the regulation of sys- 
tems. God surveys all things, and, he contemplates 
them with perfect attention ; and, consequently, he is 
as intently conversant about the smallest as about the 
greatest things. For if he were not as perfectly intent 
on the soul of an individual being, as he is about the 
general concerns of the universe, then he would do one 
thing less perfectly than another : which is impossible 

in God. 

* # * # 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St. John's, June 30th, 1806. 
Dear Neville, 

I received your letter yesterday ; and I hope you will 
not think my past silence at all in need of apology, 
when you know that our examination only closed on 
Saturday. 

I have the satisfaction of informing you that, after 
a week's scrutiny, I was deemed to be the first man. I 



i86 LETTERS OF 



had very little hopes of arriving at so distinguishing a 
station, on account of my many checks and interrup- 
tions. It gave me great pleasure to observe how all the 
men rejoiced in my success. It was on Monday that 
the classes were published. I am a prize-man both in 
the mathematical and logical, or general examination, 
and in Latin composition. 

Mr. Catton has expressed his great satisfaction at 
my progress ; and he has offered to supply me with a 
private tutor for the four months of the vacation, free 
of any expense. This will cost the college twelve or fif- 
teen guineas at least. My last term bill amounts only 
to 4Z. 5s. 3d. after my exhibitions are deducted. 

I had engaged to take charge of a few classical pu- 
pils for a clergyman in Warwickshire, during one month 
of the vacation, for which I was to receive, besides my 
board, &c, &c, ten guineas ; but Mr. Catton says this is 
a piece of extreme folly, as it will consume time, and do 
me no good. He told me, therefore, positively, that he 
would not give me an exeat, without which no man can 
leave his college for a night. 

I cannot, therefore, at all events, visit Nottingham 
with my aunt, nor meet her there. 

I could now, if I chose, leave St. John's College, and 
go to another, with eclat ; but it would be an unad vis- 
able step. I believe, however, it will be impossible for 
them to elect me fellow at St. John's as my county is 
under particular restrictions. They can give me a fel- 
lowship of smaller value, but I had rather get one at 
another college : at all events, the smaller colleges will 
be glad to elect me from St. John's. 

* * * * 

With regard to cash. I manage pretty well, though 
my fund is at present at its lowest ebb. My bills, how- 
ever, are paid ; and I have no occasion for money, ex- 
cept as a private convenience. The question therefore 
is, whether it will be more inconvenient to you than 
convenient to me, for you to replenish my purse. De- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 187 

cide impartially. I have not drawn upon my mother 
since Christmas, except for the expense of my journey 
up from Nottingham to Cambridge ; nor do 1 mean to 
do it till next' Christmas, when, as I have ordered a suit 
dt clothes, I shall have a good many calls for money. 
Let me have a long letter from you soon. 

a * # * 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

St. John's, July, 9th, 1806. 
My dear Mother, 

I have scarcely time to write you a long letter ; but 
the pleasing nature of my intelligence will, I hope, make 
up for its shortness. 

After a week's examination, I am decided to be the 
best man of my year at St. John's ; an honor I had 
scarcely hoped for, since my reading has been so very 
broken and interrupted. The contest was very stiff, 
and the men all acquitted themselves very well. We 
had thirteen men in the first class, though there are 
seldom more than six or eight who attain that rank in 
common. 

I have learned also, that I am a prize-man in classical 
composition, though I do not yet know whereabouts I 
stand. It is reported that here, too, I am first. 

Before it was known that I was the first man, Mr. 
Catton, our college tutor, told me that he was so satis- 
fied with the manner in which I had passed through 
the examination, that if I chose to stay up during the 
summer, I should have a private tutor in the mathe- 
matics, and that it should be no expense to me. I 
could not hesitate at such a proposal, especially as he did 
not limit the time for my keeping the private tutor, but 
will probably continue it as long as I like. You may 
estimate the value of this favor, when I tell you that a 



1 88 LETTERS OF 



private tutor, for the whole vacation, will cost the col- 
lege at least twelve or fourteen guineas, and that dur- 
ing term time they receive ten guineas the term. 

I cannot of course leave the college this summer, 
even for a week, and shall therefore miss the pleasure 

of seeing my Aunt G at Nottingham. I have 

written to her. 

It gave me much pleasure to observe the joy all the 
men seemed to feel at my success. I had been on a 
water excursion with a clergyman in the neighborhood, 
and some ladies, and just got home as the men were 
assembling for supper ; you can hardly conceive with 
what pleasure they all flocked round me, with the most 
hearty congratulations, and I found that many of them 
had been seeking me all over the college, in order to be 
the first to communicate the good tidings. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

St. John's, July, 1806. 

My dear Friend, 

I have good and very bad news to communicate to 
you. Good, that Mr. Catton has given me an exhibi- 
tion, which makes me a clear income of 6CZ. per annum, 
and that I am consequently more than independent ; 
bad, that I have been very ill, notwithstanding regular 
and steady exercise. Last Saturday morning I rose 
early, and got up some rather abstruse problems in me- 
chanics for my tutor, spent an hour with him, between 
eight and nine got my breakfast, and read the Greek 
History {at breakfjst) till ten, then sat down to decipher 
some logarithm tables. I think I had not done any- 
thing at them, when I lost myself. At a quarter past 
eleven my laundress found me bleeding in four different 
places in my face and head, and insensible. I got up, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 189 



and staggered about the room, and she, being fright- 
ened, ran away, and told my gyp to fetch a surgeon. 
Before he came, I was sallying out with my flannel 
gown on, and my academical gown over it : he made 
me put on my coat, and then I went to Mr. Farish's : 
he opened a vein, and my recollection returned. My 
own idea was, that I had fallen out of bed, and so I 
told Mr. Farish at first ; but I afterwards remembered 
that I had been to Mr. Fiske, and breakfasted. 

Mr. Catton has insisted on my consulting Sir Isaac 
Pennington, and the consequence is, that I am to go 
through a course of blistering, &c, which, after the 
bleeding, will leave me weak enough. 

I am, however, very well, except as regards the doc- 
tors ; and yesterday I drove into the country to Saffron 
Walden in a gig. My tongue is in a bad condition, 
from a bite which I gave it, either in my fall, or in the 
moments of convulsion. My nose has also come badly 
off. I believe I fell against my reading-desk. My other 
wounds are only rubs and scratches on the carpet. 

I am ordered to remit my studies for awhile, by the 
common advice both of doctors and tutors. Dr. Pen- 
nington hopes to pr3vent any recurrence of the fit. He 
thinks it looks towards epilepsy, of the horrors of which 
malady I have a very full and precise idea ; and I only 
pray that God will spare me as respects my faculties, 
however else it may seem good to him to afflict me. 
Were I my own master, I know how I should act ; but 
I am tied here by bands which I cannot burst. I know 
that change of place is needful ; but I must not indulge 
in the idea. The college must not pay my tutor for 
nothing. Dr. Pennington and Mr. Farish attribute the 
attack to a too continued tension of the faculties. As I 
am much alone now, I never get quite off study, and I 
think incessantly. I know nature will not endure this. 

They both proposed my going home, but Mr. did 

not hint at it, although much concerned ; and, indeed, 
I know home would be a bad place for me in my present 



190 LETTERS OF 



situation. I look round for a resting-place, and I find 
none. Yet there is one, which I have long too, too much 
disregarded, and thither I must now betake myself. 
There are many situations worse than mine, and I have 
no business to complain. If these afflictions should 
draw the bonds tighter which hold me to my Redeemer, 
it will be well. 

You may be assured that you have here a plain state- 
ment of my case, in its true colors, without any pallia- 
tion. I am now well again, and have only to fear a re- 
lapse, which I shall do all I can to prevent, by a relax- 
ation in study. 

I have now written too much. 

I am, very sincerely, yours, 

II. K. White. 

P.S. I charge you, as you value my peace, not to let 
my friends hear, either directly or indirectly, of my ill- 
ness. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St. John's, 30Z/i July, 1806. 
My Dear Neville, 

I have deferred sitting down to write to you until I 
should have leisure to send you a very long letter ; but 
as that time seems every day farther off, I shall beg your 
patience no longer, but fill my sheet as well as I can. 

I must first reply to your queries. I beg pardon for 

having omitted to mention the receipt of the , but, 

as I acknowledged the receipt of the parcel, I concluded 
that you would understand me to mean its contents as 
specified in your letter. But I know the accuracy of a 
man of business too well to think your caution strange. 
As to the college prizes, I have the satisfaction of telling 
you that I am entitled to two— viz., the first for the 
general examination, and one of the first for the class- 
ical composition. I say one of the first on this account 
—I am put equal with two others at the top of the list. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 191 

In this contest, I had all the men of the three years to 

contend with, and, as both my equals are my seniors in 

standing, I have no reason to be dissatisfied. 
* # * * 

The Rhetoric Lecturer sent me one of my Latin 
Essays to copy, for the purpose of inspection ; a com- 
pliment which was paid to none of the rest. 
* * * * 

"We three are the only men who are honored with prizes, 
so that we have cut four or five Eton men, who are 
always boasting of their classical ability. 

With regard to your visit here, I think you had bet- 
ter come in term time, as the university is quite empty, 
and starers have nothing but the buildings to gaze at. 
If, however, you can come more conveniently now than 
hereafter, I would advise you not to let this circum- 
stance prevent you. I shall be glad to see Mr. with 

you. You may spend a few days very pleasantly here, 
even in vacation time, though you will scarcely meet a 
gownsman in the streets. 

I thought the matter over about , but I do not 

think I have any influence here. Being myself a young 
man, I cannot, with any chance of success, attempt to 
direct even that interest which I may claim with others. 

■I- •!* •> "J* 

The university is the worst place in the world for mak- 
ing interest. The great mass of men are themselves 
busily employed in wriggling themselves into places and 
livings ; and there is, in general, too much anxiety for 
No. 1, to permit any interference for a neighbor, No. 2. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

St. John's, Aug., 1806. 

My dear Mother, 

I have no hesitation in declining the free-school, on 
the ground of its precluding the exercise of the minis- 

«a—— ■ — Mac— 1 sMaw—e m i ■! ■ 1 , 1 11 i > ■ m i i jm mtm wan— a;^ "»™* g — """ 



192 LETTERS OF 



terial duties. I shall take the liberty of writing Mr. 
, to thank him for having thought of rue, and to 

recommend to his notice Mr. . 

* * * * 

But do not fret yourself, my dear mother ; in a few 
years we shall, I hope, be in happier circumstances. I 
am not too sanguine in my expectations, but I shall cer- 
tainly be able to assist you, and my sisters in, in a few 
years. * * * As for Maria and Kate, if they succeed 
well in their education, they may, perhaps, be able to 
keep a school of a superior kind, where the profits will 
be greater, and the la,bor less. I even hope that this 
may not be necessary, and that you, my father, and 
they, may come and live with me when I get a parson- 
age. You would bo pleased to see how comfortably 

Mr. lives with his mother and sisters, at a snug 

little rectory about ten miles from Cambridge. So much 
for castle building. 



TO MR. . 

St. John's, Aug. 15, 1806. 

My good Friexd, 

I have deferred writing to you until my return from 

Mr. 's, knowing how much you would like to hear 

from me in respect to that dear family. I am afraid 
your patience has been tried by this delay, and 1 trust 
to this circumstance alone as my excuse. 

My hours have seldom flowed so agreeably as they 

did at S , nor perhaps have I made many visits which 

have been more profitable to me in a religious sense. 

The example of Mr. will, I hope, stimulate me to a 

faithful preparation for the sacred office to which I am 
destined. I eay a faithful preparation, because I fear I 
am apt to deceive myself with respect to my present 
pursuits, and to think I am only laboring for the honor 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 193 

of God, when I am urging literary labors to a degree in- 
consistent with duty, and my real interests. Mr. 

is a good and careful pastor ; my heart has seldom been 
so full as when I have accompanied him to the cham- 
bers of the sick, or have heard his affectionate addresses 
to the attentive crowd, which fills his schoolroom on 
Sunday evening. He is so earnest, and yet so sober ; 

so wise, and yet so simple ! You, my dear R , are 

now very nearly approaching to the sacred office, and I 
sincerely pray that you may be stimulated to follow 
after the pattern of our excellent friend. You may have 

Mr. 's zeal, but you will need his learning and his 

judgment to temper it. Remember, that it is a work of 
much more self-denial, for a man of active habits to sub- 
mit to a course of patient study, than to suffer many 
privations for Christ's sake. In the latter the heart is 
warmly interested ; the other is the slow and unsatis- 
factory labor of the head, tedious in its progress, and 
uncertain in its produce. Yet there is a pleasure, great 
and indescribable ple'asure, in sanctified study : the 
more wearisome the toil, the sweeter will it be to those 
who sit down with a subdued and patient spirit, content 
to undergo much tedium and fatigue, for the honor of 
God's ministry. Reading, however dry, soon becomes 
interesting if we pursue it with a resolute spirit of in- 
vestigation, and a determinate purpose of thoroughly 
mastering what we are about. You cannot take up the 
most tiresome book, on the most tiresome subject, and 
read it with fixed attention for an hour, but you feel a 
desire to go on ; and here I would exhort you, whatever 
you read, read it accurately and thoroughly, and never to 
pass over anything, however minute, which you do quite 
not comprehend. This is the only way to become really 
learned, and to make your studies satisfactory and pro- 
ductive. If I were capable of directing your course of 
reading, I should recommend you to peruse Butler's 
Analogy, "Warburton's Divine Legation, Prideaux and 
Shuckford's Connexions, and Milner's Church History, 

13 



L 



94 LETTERS OF 



century for century, along with Mosheim's Ecclesiastical 
History. The latter is learned, concise, clear, and writ- 
ten in good scholastic Latin. Study the Chronology of 
the Old Testament, and, as a means of making it inter- 
esting, trace out the completion of the prophecies. Read 
your Greek Testament with the nicest accuracy, tracing 
every word to its root, and seeking out the full force of 
particular expressions, by reference both to Parkhurst 
and Scapula. The derivation of words will throw great 
light on many parts of the New Testament ; thus if we 
know that the word dtaxovoq, a deacon, comes from dia 
and xovtu) to bustle about in the dust, we shall have a 
fuller notion of the humility of those who held the office 
in the primitive chu ch. In reading the Old Testaments 
wherever you find a passage obscure, turn to the Sep- 
tuagint, which will often clear up a place better than 
fifty commentators. Thus, in Joel, the day of the Lord 
is called " a clay of gloominess, a day of darkness, and of 
clouds, like the morning spread upon the mountains,''' 
which is a contradiction. Looking at the Septuagint, 
we find that the passage is mispointed, and that the 
latter metaphor is applied to the people: "A people 
great and strong, like the morning spread upon the 
mountains." The Septuagint is very easy Greek, quite 
as much so as the Greek Testament ; and a little prac- 
tice of this kind will help you in your knowledge of the 
language, and make you a good critic. I perceive your 
English style is very unpolished, and I think this a matter 
of great moment. I should recommend you to read, 
and imitate as nearly as you can, the serious papers in 
the eighth volume of the Spectator, particularly those on 
the Ubiquity of the Deity. Accustom yourself to write 
down your thoughts, and to polish the style some time 
after composition, when you have forgotten the expres- 
sion. Aim at conciseness, neatness, and clearness ; 
never make use of fine or vulgar words. Avoid every 
epithet which does not add greatly to the idea, for every 
addition of this kind, if it do not strengthen, weakens 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 195 

the sentiment ; and be cautious never to express by two 
words what you can do as well by one : a multiplicity 
of words only hides the sense, just as a superabundance 
of clothes does the shape. Thus much for studies. 

■p *& n* *t* 

I recommend you to pause and consider much and 
well on the subject of matrimony. You have heard my 
sentiments with regard to a rich wife ; but I am much 
too young, and too great an enthusiast, to be even a 
tolerable counsellor on a point like this. You must 
think for yourself, and consult with prudent and pious 
people whose years have taught them the wisdom of 
the present world, and whose experience has instructed 
them in that of the world to come. But a little sober 
thought is worth a world of advice. You have, however, 
an infallible adviser, and to his directions you may 
safely look. To him I commend all your ways. 

I have one observation to make, which I hope you 
will forgive in me ; it is, that you fall in love too readily. 
I have no notion of a man's having a certain species of 
affection for two women at once. I am afraid you let 
your admiration outrun your judgment in the outset, 
and then comes the denouement and its attendant, dis- 
appointment and disgust. Take good heed you do not 
do this in marriage ; for if you do, there will be great 
risk of your making shipwreck of your hopes. Be con- 
tent to learn a woman's good qualities as they gradually 
reveal themselves ; and do not let your imagination 
adorn her with virtues and charms to which she has no 
pretension. I think there is often a little disappoint- 
ment after marriage — our angels turn out to be mere 
Eves ; — but the true way of avoiding, or, at least, les- 
sening this inconvenience, is to estimate the object of 
our affections really as she is, without deceiving our- 
selves, and injuring her, by elevating her above her 
sphere. This is the way to be happy in marriage : for, 
upon this plan, our partners will be continually break- 
ing in upon us, and delighting us with some new dis- 



196 . LETTERS OF 



covery of excellence; while upon the othei plan, we 
shall always be finding that the reality falls short of 
what we had so fondly and so foolishly imagined. 

Be very sedulous and very patient in your studies. 
You would shudder at the idea of obtruding yourself 
on the sacred office in a condition rather to disgrace 
than to adorn it. St. Paul is earnest in admonishing 
Timothy to give attention to reading : and that holy 
apostle himself quotes from several of the best authors 
among the Greeks. His style is also very elegant, and 
polished on occasion. He, therefore, did not think the 
graces of composition beneath his attention, as some fool- 
ish and ignorant preachers of the present day are apt 
to do. I have written a longer letter to you than I ex- 
pected, and I must now therefore say, good bye. 
I am very affectionately yours, 

11. K. White. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St. John's, Aug. 12th, 1806. 

Dear Neville, 

I can but just manage to tell you, by this post, what 
I am sure you will be glad to learn, even at the expense 
of sevenpence for an empty sheet, that Mr. Catton has 
given me an exhibition, which makes my whole income 
sixty guineas a year. My last term's bill was 131. 135., 
and I had 11. 12s. to receive ; but the expenses of this 
vacation will leave me bare until Christmas. 

I have the pleasure of not having solicited either 
this or any other of the favors which Mr. Catton has so 
liberally bestowed upon me : and though I have been 
the possessor of this exhibition ever since March last, yet 
Mr. Catton did not hint it to me until this morning, 
when he gave me my bill. 

I have, of course, signified to Mr. Simeon, that I 
shall have no need whatever of the stipend which I have 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 197 

hitherto received through his hands. He was extremely 
kind on the occasion, arid indeed his conduct towards 
me has ever been fatherly. It was Mr. who al- 
lowed me 20£. per annum, and Mr. Simeon added 10Z. He 
told me that my conduct gave him the most heartfelt 
joy : that I was so generally respected, without having 
made any compliances, as he understood, or having, in 
any instance, concealed my principles. Indeed this is 
a praise which I may claim, though I never conceived 
that it was at all an object of praise. I have always 
taken some pains to let those around me know my re- 
ligious sentiments, as a saving of trouble, and as a mark 
of that independence of opinion which, I think, every 
one ought to assert : and as I have produced my opin- 
ions with frankness and modesty, and supported them 
(if attacked) with coolness and candor, I have never 
found them any impediment to my acquaintance with 
any person whose acquaintance I coveted. 



TO MR. K. W. A. 

St. John's, Aug. 18th, 1806. 

Dear A , 

I am glad to hear of your voyages and travels through 
various regions, and various seas, both of this island, 
and its little suckling, the Isle of Wight. 

Many hair's-breadth 'scapes and perilous adventures 
you must needs have had, and many a time, on the ex- 
treme shores of the south, must you have looked up with 
the eye of intelligent curiosity, to see whether the same 
moon shone there as in the pleasant, but now far distant, 
groves of Colwick. And now, my very wise and trav- 
elled friend, seeing that your head is yet upon your 
shoulders, and your neck in its right natural position, 
and seeing that, after all the changes and chances of a 
long journey, and after being banged from post to pil- 
lar, and from pillar to post, — seeing, I say, that, after 



198 LETTERS OF 



all this, you are safely housed once more undjr your 
paternal roof, what think you, if you were to indulge 
your mind as much as you have done your eyes and 
gaping muscles ? A few trips to the fountains of light 
and color, or to the regions of the good lady who 
yspatv dddkiuq diircet atpopfiov izovruv^ a ramble down the 
Galaxy, and a few peeps on the unconfined confines 
(izot/jlov tlnar/iov, uizvov au-v<» fttov ou fiiibrovak) of infinite 
space, would prove, perhaps, as delectable to your im- 
material part, as the delicious see-saw of a post-chaise 
was to your corporeal ; or, if this setherial, a ronautical, 
mathematical volutations should displease you, perhaps 
it would not be amiss to saunter a few weeks on the 
site of Troy, or to lay out plans of ancient history on 
the debateable ground of the Peloponnesians and Athen- 
ians. There is one Thucydides, who lives near, who 
will tell you all about the places you visit, and the 
great events connected with them : he is a sententious 
old fellow, very shrewd in his remarks, and speaks, 
moreover, very excellent Greek at your service. I know 
not whether you have met with any guide in the course 
of your bodily travels who can be compared to him. 
If you should make Rome in your way, either there or 
back, I should like to give you a letter of introduction 
to an old friend of mine, wnose name is Livy, who, as 
far as his memory extends, will amuse you with pretty 
stories, and some true history. There is another honest 
fellow enough, to whom I dare not recommend you, he 
is so very crabbed and tart, and speaks so much in epi- 
grams and enigmas, that I am afraid he would teach 
you to talk as unintelligibly as himself. I do not mean 
to give you any more advice, but I have one exhorta- 
tion, which I hope you will take in good part ; it is this, 
that if you set out on this journey, you would please to 
proceed to its end : for I have been acquainted with 
some young men, who have turned their faces towards 
Athens or Rome, and trudged on manfully for a few 
miles, but when they had travelled till they grew weary, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 199 

and worn out a good pair of shoes, have suddenly be- 
come disheartened, and returned without any recom- 
pense for their pains. 

And now let me assume a more serious strain, and 
exhort you to cultivate your mind with the utmost as- 
siduity. You are at a critical period of your life, and 
the habits which you now form will, most probably, ad- 
here to you through life. If they be idle habits, lam 
sure they will. 

But even the cultivation of your mind is of minor 
importance to that of your heart, your temper, and dis- 
position. Here I have need, not to preach, but to learn. 
You have had less to encounter in your religious pro- 
gress than / have, and your progress has been therefore 
greater, greater even than your superior faculties would 
have warranted. I have had to fight hard with vanity 
at home, and applause abroad ; no wonder that my 
vessel has been tossed about, but greater wonder that 
it is yet upon the waves. I exhort you to pray with me, 
(and I entreat you to pray for me, ) that we may both 
weather out the storm, and arrive in the haven of sound 
tranquillity, even on this side of the grave. 

"We have all particular reason to watch and pray, 

lest self too much predominate. We should accustom 

ourselves to hold our own comforts and conveniences as 

subordinate to the comforts and conveniences of others 

in all things ; and a habit thus begun in little matters, 

might probably be extended without difficulty to those 

of a higher nature. 

* * * 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

St. John's, Uth Sept., 1806. 
My dear Ben, 

I can scarcely write more to you now than just to 
calm your uneasiness on my account. I am perfectly 
well again, and have experienced no recurrence of the 



200 LETTERS OF 



fit ; my spirits, too, are better, and I read very moder- 
ately. I hope that God will be pleased to spare his re- 
bellious child ; this stroke has brought me nearer to 
him : whom indeed have I for my comforter, but him ? 

I am still reading, but with moderation, as I have 
been during the whole vacation, whatever you may 
persist in thinking. 

My heart turns with more fondness towards the con- 
solations of religion than it did, and in some degree 
I have found consolation. I still, however, conceive 
that it is my duty to pursue my studies temperately, 
and to fortify myself with Christian resignation and 
calmness for the worst. I am much wanting in these 
virtues, and, indeed, in all Christian virtues, but I 
know how desirable they are, and I long for them. 
Pray that I may be strengthened and enlightened, and 
that I may be enabled to go where duty bids, wherever 
that be. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

St. John's, Cambridge, 22d Sept., 1806. 
My dear Friend, 

* * * * 

You charge me with an accession of gallantry of late : 
I plead guilty. I really began to think of marriage, 
(very prematurely, you'll say) ; but if I experience any 
repetition of the fit, I shall drop the idea of it forever. 
It would be folly and cruelty to involve another in all 
the horrors of such a calamity. 

I thank you for your kind exhortations to a complete 
surrender of my heart to God, which are contained in 
your letter. In this respect I have betrayed the most 
deplorable weakness and indecision of character. I 
know what the truth is, and I love it ; but I still go on 
giving myself half to God, and half to the world, as if 
I expected to enjoy the comforts of religion along with 
the vanities of life. If, for a short time, I keep up a 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 201 

closer communion with God, and feel my whole bosom 
bursting with sorrow and tenderness as I approach the 
footstool of my Saviour, I soon relapse into indifference, 
worldlymindedness, and sin ; my devotions become list- 
less and perfunctory : I dote on the world, its toys, and 
its corruptions, and am mad enough to be willing to 
sacrifice the happiness of eternity to the deceitful pleas- 
ures of the passing moment. My heart is indeed a 
lamentable sink of loathsome corruption and hypocrisy. 
In consistency with my professed opinions, I am often 
obliged to talk on subjects of which I know but little 
in experience, and to rank myself with those who have 
felt what I only approve from my head, and, perhaps, 
esteem from my heart. I often start with horror and 
disgust from myself, when I consider how deeply I have 
imperceptibly gone into these species of simulation. 
Yet I think my love for the Gospel, and its professors, 
is sincere ; only I am insincere in suffering persons to 
entertain an high opinion of me as a child of God, when 
indeed I am an alien from him. On looking over some 
private memorandums which were written at various 
times in the course of the two last years, I beheld, with 
inexpressible anguish, that my progress has, if anything, 
been retrograde. I am still as dark, still as cold, still 
as ignorant, still as fond of the world, and have still 
fewer desires after holiness. I am very, very, dissatis- 
fied with myself, and yet am not prompted to earnest 
prayer. I have been so often earnest, and always have 
fallen away, that I go to God without hope, without 
faith. Yet I am not totally without hope ; I know God 
will have my whole heart, and I know when I give him 
that, I shall experience the light of his countenance with 
a permanency. I pray that he would assist my weak- 
ness, and grant me some portion of his grace, in order 
that I may overcome the world, the flesh, and the devil, 
to which I have long, very long, been a willing, though 
an unhappy slave. Do you pray earnestly with me, and 
for me, in these respects ; I know the prayers of tho 



202 LETTERS OF 



faithful avail much ; and when you consider with what 
great temptations 1 am surrounded, and how very little 
strength I have wherewith to resist them, you will feel 
with me the necessity of earnest supplication, and fer- 
vent intercession, lest I should be lost, and cast away 
forever. 

I shall gladly receive your spiritual advice and direc- 
tions. I have gone on too long in coldness and uncon- 
cern ; who knows whether, if I neglect the present 
hour, the day of salvation may be gone by forever 1 

•ft . 5p aft 5ft 



TO MR. JOHN CHARLESWORTH. 

St. John's, 22d Sept.. 1806. 
My dear Charles worth, 

Thank you for taking the blame of our neglected 
correspondence on your own shoulders. I thought it 
rested elsewhere. Thrice have I begun to write to you ; 
once in Latin, and twice in English ; and each time 
have the fates opposed themselves to the completion of 
my design. But, however, psix sit rebus, we are natu- 
rally disposed to forgive, because we are, as far as inten- 
tion goes, mutually offenders. 

I thank you for your invitation to Clapham, which 
came at a fortunate juncture, since I had just settled 
with my tutor that I should pay a visit to my brother 
in London this week. I shall of course see you ; and 
shall be happy to spend a few days with you at Clap- 
ham, and to rhapsodize on your common. It gives me 
pleasure to hear you are settled, and I give you many 
hearty good wishes for practice and prosperity. I hope 
you will soon find that a wife is a very necessary article 
of enjoyment in a domesticated state ; for how indeed 
should it be otherwise ? A man cannot cook his dinner 
while he is employed in earning it. Housekeepers are 
complete helluones rei familiaris, and not only pick 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 203 

your pockets, but abuse you into the bargain. While a 
wife, on the contrary, both cooks your dinner and en- 
livens it with her society ; receives you after the toils of 
the day with cheerfulness and smiles, and is not only 
the faithful guardian of your treasury, but the soother 
of your cares, and the alleviator of your calamities. 
Now, am I not very poetical ? But on such a. subject, 
who would not be poetical ? A wife ! — a domestic fire- 
side ! — cheerful assiduities of love and tenderness ! It 
would inspire a Dutch burgomaster ! and if, with all this 
in your grasp, you shall still choose the pulsare terrain 
pede libero, still avoid the irrupta copula, still deem it 
a matter of light regard to be an object of affection and 
fondness to an amiable and sensible woman, why then 
you deserve to be a fellow of a college all your days ; to 
be kicked about in your last illness by a saucy and 
careless bed-maker ; and, lastly, to be put in the ground 
in your college chapel, followed only by the man who 
is to be your successor. Why, man, I dare no more 
dream that I shall ever have it in my power to have a 
wife, than that I shall be Archbishop of Canterbury, 
and Primate of all England. A suite of rooms in a still 
and quiet corner of old St. John's, which was once oc- 
cupied by a crazy monk, or by one of the translators of 
the Bible in the days cf good King James, must form 
the boundary of my ambition. I must be content to 
inhabit walls which never echoed with a female voice — 
to be buried in glooms which were never cheered with a 
female smile. It is said, indeed, that women were some- 
times permitted to visit St. John's, when it was a mon- 
astery of White Friars, but the good monks were care- 
ful to sprinkle holy water wherever their profane foot- 
steps had carried contagion and pollution. 

It is well that you are free from the restrictions of 
monastic austerity, and that, while I sleep under the 
shadow of towers and lofty walls, and the safeguard of 
a vigilant porter, you are permitted to inhabit your own 
cottage, under your own guardianship, and to listen to 
the sweet accents of domestic affection. 



204 LETTERS OF 



Yes, my very Platonic, or rather Stoical friend, I 
must see you safely bound in the matrimonial noose, 
and then, like a confirmed bachelor, ten years hence, I 
shall have the satisfaction of pretending to laugh at, 
while, in my heart, I envy you. So much for rhapsody. 
I am coming to London for relaxation's sake, and shall 
take it pretty freely ; that is, I shall seek after fine sights 
— stare at fine people — be cheerful with the gay — foolish 
with the simple — and leave as little room to suspect as 
possible that I am (anything of) a philosopher and 
mathematician. I shall probably talk a little Greek, but 
it will be by stealth, in order to excite no suspicion. 

■F *P "P ■ ■!■ 

I shall be in town on Friday or Saturday. I am in 
a very idle mood, and have written you a very idle let- 
ter, for which I entreat your pardon, and 
I am. dear C , 



Very sincerely yours, 

H.K. White. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

(FOUND IN HIS POCKET AFTER HIS DECEASE.) 

St. John's College, Saturday, Oct. 11, 1806. 

Dear Neville, 

I am safely arrived, and in college, but my illness 
has increased upon me much. The cough continues, 
and is attended with a good deal of fever. I am under 
the care of Mr. Farish, and entertain very little appre- 
hension about the cough ; but my over exertions in 
town have reduced me to a state of much debility ; and 
until the cough be gone, I cannot be permitted to take 
any strengthening medicines. This places me in an 
awkward predicament ; but I think I perceive a degree 
of expectoration this morning, which will soon relieve 
me, and then I shall mend apace. 

Under these circumstances, I must not expect to see 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 205 

you here at present : when I am a little recovered, it 
will be a pleasant relaxation to me. 

^ 5fc 7K ^ 

Our lectures began on Friday, but I do not attend 
them until I am better. I have not written to my 
mother, nor shall I while I remain unwell. You will 
tell her, as a reason, that our lectures began on Frida}^. 
I know she will be uneasy if she do not hear from me, 
and still more so, if I tell her I am ill, 

I cannot write more at present, than that I am 
Your truly affectionate brother, 

H. K. White. 



HINTS, Etc. 

Why will not men be contented with appearing what 
they are? Assure as we attempt to pass for what we 
are not, we make ourselves ridiculous. With religious 
professors this ought to be a consideration of impor- 
tance ; for when we assume credit for what we do not 
possess, we break the laws of God in more ways than we 
are aware of : vanity and deceit are both implicated. 

Why art thou so disquieted, my soul, and why so 
full of heaviness? put my trust in God ; for I will 
yet thank him which is the help of my countenance, 
and my God. Ps. xlii. 

Domine Jesu in te speravi, miserere mei ! Ne sperne 
animum miserrimi peccatoris. 

The love of Christ is the only source from whence a 
Christian can hope to derive spiritual happiness and 
peace. Now the love of Christ will not reside in the 
bosom already pre-occupied with the love of the world, 
or any other predominating affection. We must give 
up everything for it, and we know it deserves that 
distinction ; yet, upon this principle, unless the energy 
of Divine grace were what it is, mighty and irresistible, 
who would be saved ? 



2 o6 LETTERS OF 



The excellence of our liturgy, and our establishment, 
is more and more impressed upon my mind : how ad- 
mirable do her confessions, her penitentiary offerings, 
her intercessions, her prayers, suit with the case of the 
Christian ! It is a sign that a man's heart is not right 
with God, when he finds fault with the liturgy. 

. Contempt of religion is distinct from unbelief : un- 
belief may be the result of proud reasonings, and inde- 
pendent research ; but contempt of the Christian doc- 
trine must proceed from profound ignorance. 



Lord, give me a heart to turn all knowledge to thy 
glory, and not to mine : keep me from being deluded 
with the lights of vain philosophy : keep me from the 
pride of human reason : let me not think my own 
thoughts, nor dream my own imaginations ; but in all 
things acting under the guidance of thy Holy Spirit, 
may I live in all simplicity, humility, and singleness of 
heart, unto the Lord Jesus Christ, now and for evermore. 
Amen. 

[The above Prayer was prefixed to a Manual, or Memorandum-book .J 



A Prayer. 

Almighty Father, at the close of another day I kneel 
before thee in supplication, and ere I compose my body 
to sleep, I would steal a few moments from weariness, 
to lift up my thoughts to thy perfections, to meditate on 
thy wonderful dispensations, and to make my request 
known unto thee. 

Although the hours of this day have not been spent 
in the busy haunts of society, but in the pursuit of need- 
ful and godly knowledge, yet I am conscious that my 
thoughts and actions have been far from pure ; and 
many vain and foolish speculations, many sinful 
thoughts and ambitious anticipations, have obtruded 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 207 

themselves on my mind. 1 know that I have felt 
pleasure in what I ought to have abhorred, and 
that I have not had thy presence continually in 
mind ; so that my ghostly enemy has mixed poison 
with my best food, and sowed tares with the good 
seed of instruction. Sometimes, too, the world has 
had too much to do with my thoughts ; I have 
longed for its pleasures, its splendors, its honors, and 
have forgotten that I am a poor follower of Jesus Christ, 
whose inheritance is not in this land, but in the fields 
above. I do therefore supplicate and beseech thee, oh, 
thou my God and Father ! that thou wilt not only for- 
give these my wanderings, but that thou wilt chasten 
my heart, and establish my affections, so that they may 
not be shaken by the light suggestions of the tempter 
Satan : and since I am of myself very weak, I implore 
thy restraining hand upon my understanding, that I 
may not reason in the pride of worldly wisdom, nor flat- 
ter myself on my attainments, but ever hold my judg- 
ment in subordination to thy word, and see myself as 
what I am, an helpless dependent on thy bounty. If a 
spirit of indolence and lassitude have at times crept on 
me, I pray thy forgiveness for it ; and if I have felt 
rather inclined to prosecute studies which procure re- 
spect from the world, than the humble knowledge which 
becomes a servant of Christ, do you check this growing 
propensity, and only bless my studies so far as they con- 
duce to thy glory, and as thy glory is their chief end. My 
heart, Lord ! is but too fond of this vain and deceitful 
world, and I have many fears lest I should make ship- 
wreck of my hope on the rocks of ambition and vanity. 
Give me, I pray thee, thy grace to repress these propen- 
sities : illumine more completely my wandering mind, 
rectify my understanding, and give me a simple, humble, 
and affectionate heart, to love thee and thy sheep with 
all sincerity. As I increase in learning, let me increase 
in lowness of spirit ; and inasmuch as the habits of 
studious life, unless tempered by preventing grace, but 



2o8 LETTERS OF 



too much tend to produce formality and lifelessness in 

devotion, do thou, heavenly Father, preserve me from 

all cold and speculative views of thy blessed Gospel; 

and while with regular constancy I kneel down daily 

before thee, do not fail to light up the fire of heavenly 

love in my bosom, and to draw my heart heavenward 

with earnest longings [to thyself j. 

And now, Blessed Redeemer ! my rock, my hope, 

and only sure defence, to thee do I cheerfully commit 

both my soul and my body. If thy wise Providence see 

fit, grant that I may rise in the morning, refreshed with 

sleep, and with a spirit of cheerful activity for the duties 

of the day : but whether I wake here or in eternity, 

grant that my trust in thee may remain sure, and m*y 

hope unshaken. Our Father, &c. 

[This Prayer was discovered amongst some dirty loose papers of H. 
K. W.'s.] 



Memorandum. 

September 22, 1806. 

On running over the pages of this book, I am con- 
strained to observe, Math sorrow and shame, that my 
progress in divine light has been little or none. 

I have made a few conquests over my corrupt incli- 
nations, but my heart still hankers after its old delights ; 
still lingers half willing, half unwilling, in the ways of 
world ly-mindedness. 

My knowledge of divine things is very little im- 
proved. I have read less of the Scriptures than I did 
last year. In reading the Fathers, I have consulted 
rather the pride of my heart, than my spiritual good. 

I now turn to the cause of these evils, and 1 find that 
the great root, the main spring is — love of the world ; 
next to that, pride ; next to that, spiritual sloth. 

[This Memorandum was written a very few weeks before his death-] 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



SONNET, 

Addressed to H. K. White, on his Poeyns lately published. 

Henry ! I greet thine entrance into life ! 
Sure presage that the myrmidons of fate, 
The fool's unmeaning laugh, the critic's hate, 
Will dire assail thee ; and the envious strife 
Of bookish schoolmen, beings over rife, 
Whose pia-mater studious is fill'd 
With unconnected matter, half distill'd 
From letter' d page, shall bare for thee the knife, 
Beneath whose edge the poet oft-times sinks : 
But fear not ! for thy modest work contains 
The germ of worth ; thy wild poetic strains, 
How sweet to him, untutor'd bard, who thinks 
Thy verse " has power to please, as soft it flows 
Through the smooth murmurs of the frequent close." 

G. L. C , 1803. 



SONNET, 
To Henry Kirke White, on his Poems lately published. 

BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ. 

Hail ! gifted youth, whose passion-breathing lay 
Portrays a mind attuned to noblest themes, 
A mind, which, wrapt in Fancy's high-wrought 
dreams, 

To nature's veriest bounds its daring way 

ti — ; j. 



2IO TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

Can wing : what charms throughout thy pages shine, 
To win with fairy thrill the melting soul ! 
For though along impassion'd grandeur roll, 

Yet in full power simplicity is thine. 

Proceed, sweet bard ! and the heav'n-granted fire 
Of pity, glowing in thy feeling breast, 
May nought destroy, may nought thy soul divest 

Of joy — of rapture in the living lyre, 

Thou tunest so magically ; but may fame 
Each passing year add honors to thy name. 

Richmond, Sept., 1803. 



TO MR. H. K. WHITE. 

Hark t r tis some sprite who sweeps a fun'ral knell 
For Dermody no more. That fitful tone 
From Eolus' wild harp alone can swell, 

Or Chatterton assumes the lyre unknown. 

No ; list again ! 'tis Bateman's fatal sigh 

Swells with the breeze, and dies upon the stream : 

'Tis Margaret mourns, as swift she rushes by, 
Roused by the daemons from adulterous dream. 

Oh, say, sweet youth ! Avhat genius fires thy soul ? 
The same which tuned the frantic nervous strain 
To the wild harp of Collins ? — By the pole, 
Or 'mid the seraphim and heav'nly train, 
Taught Milton everlasting secrets to unfold, 
To sing Hell's flaming gulf, or Heav'n high arch'd 
with gold ? 

H Welker. 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 211 

LINES 

On the death of Mr. Henry Kirke White. 

BY THE REV. J. PLUMPTRE. 

Such talents and such piety combin'd, 
With such unfeign'd humility of mind, 
Bespoke him fair to tread the way to fame, 
And live an honor to the Christian name. 
But Heaven was pleased to stop his fleeting hour, 
And blight the fragrance of the opening flow'r. 
We mourn — but not for him, removed from pain ; 
Our loss, we trust, is his eternal gain : 
With him we'll strive to win the Saviour's love, 
And hope to join him with the blest above. 
2&h Oct., 1806. 

SONNET 

ON HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



Master so early of the various lyre 

Energic, pure, sublime ! — Thus art thou gone ? 

In its bright dawn of fame that spirit flown 
Which breathed such sweetness, tenderness, and fire ! 
Wert thou but shown to win us to admire, 

And veil in death thy splendor ? — but unknown 

Their destination who least time have shone, 
And brightest beam'd. — When these the eternal sire. 
— Righteous and wise, and good are all his ways — 

Eclipses as their sun begins to rise, 
Can mortal judge, for their diminish' d days, 

What blest equivalent in changeless skies. 
What sacred glory waits them ? — His the praise ; 

Gracious, whate'er he gives, whate'er denies. 

C. Lofft. 
2±th Oct., 1806. 



2 12 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



LINES 

On the Death of Mr. Henry Kirke White, late of St. 
John's College, Cambridge. 

WRITTEN ABOUT AND IN THAT COLLEGE. 

Sorrows are mine — then let me joys evade, 
And seek for sympathies in this lone shade. 
The glooms of death fall heavy on my heart, 
And, between life and me, a truce impart. 
Genius has vanish' d in its opening bloom, 
And youth and beauty wither in the tomb ! 

Thought, ever prompt to lend th' inquiring eye. 
Pursues thy spirit through futurity. 
Does thy aspiring mind new powers essay, 
Or in suspended being wait the day, 
When earth shall fall before the awful train 
Of Heaven and Virtue's everlasting reign ? 

May goodness, which thy heart did once enthrone, 
Emit one ray to meliorate my own ! 
And for thy sake, when time affliction calm, 
Science shall please, and Poesy shall charm. 

I turn my steps whence issued all my woes, 
Where the dull courts monastic glooms impose \ 
Thence fled a spirit whose unbounded scope 
Surpass'd the fond creations e'en of hope. 

Along this path thy living step has fled, 
Along this path they bore thee to the dead. 
All that this languid eye can now survey 
Witness'd the vigor of thy fleeting day : 
And witness'd all, as speaks this anguish'd tear, 
The solemn progress of thy early bier. 

Sacred the walls that took thy parting breath, 
Own'd thee in life, encompass'd thee in death ! 

Oh ! I can feel as felt the sorrowing friend 
Who o'er thy corse in agony did bend ; 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 213 

Dead as thyself to all the -world inspires, 

Paid the last rites mortality requires ; 

Closed the dim eye that beam'd with mind before ; 

Composed the icy limbs to move no more ! 

Some power the picture from my memory tear, 
Or feeling will rush onward to despair. 

Immortal hopes ! come, lend your blest relief, 
And raise the soul bow'd down with mortal grief ; 
Teach it to look for comfort in the skies : 
Earth cannot give what Heaven's high will denies. 
Cambridge, Nov., 1806. 



SONNET 

Occasioned by the death of H. Kirke White. 

I. 

Yes, fled already is thy vital fire, 
And the fair promise of thy early bloom 
Lost, in youth's morn extinct ; sunk in the tomb ; 

Mute in the grave sleeps thy enchanted lyre ! 

And is it vainly that our souls aspire ? 
Falsely does the presaging heart presume 
That we shall live beyond life's cares and gloom ; 

Grasps it eternity with high desire 

11. 

But to imagine bliss, feel woe, and die ; 

Leaving survivors to worse pangs than death ? 

Not such the sanction of the Eternal Mind. 
The harmonious order of the starry sky, 

And awful revelation's angel-breath, 
Assure these hopes their full effect shall find. 

C. L. 

25th Dec, 1806. 



2 14 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



WRITTEN IN THE HOMER OF MR. H. KIRKE 

WHITE. 

Presented to me by Ms Brother, J. Neville White. 

I. 

Bard of brief days, but ah, of deathless fame ! 

While on these awful leaves my fond eyes rest, 

On which thine late have dwelt, thy hand late prest, 
I pause ; and gaze regretful on thy name. 
By neither chance, nor envy, time, nor flame, 

Be it from this its mansion dispossest ! 

But thee Eterxity clasps to her breast, 
And in celestial splendor thrones thy claim. 

II. 

No more with mortal pencil shalt thou trace 
An imitative radiance :* thy pure lyre 

Springs from our changeful atmosphere's embrace, 
And beams and breathes in empyreal fire : 

The Homeric and Miltonian sacred tone 

Responsive hail that lyre congenial to their own. 

C. Lofft. 

Bury, 11th Jan., 1807. 



TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE. 

BY A IiADY. 

If worth, if genius, to the world are dear, 
To Henry's shade devote no common tear. 
His worth on no precarious tenure hung, 
From genuine piety his virtues sprung : 
If pure benevolence, if steady sense, 
Can to the feeling heart delight dispense ; 
* Alluding to his pencilled sketch of a head surrounded with a glory. 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 215 



If all the highest efforts of the mind, 

Exalted, noble, elegant, refined, 

Call for fond sympathy's heartfelt regret, 

Ye sons of genius, pay the mournful debt : 

His friends can truly speak how large his claim 

And " Life was only wanting to his fame." 

Art Thou, indeed, dear youth, forever fled ? 

So quickly number'd with the silent dead. 

Too sure I read it in the downcast eye, 

Hear it in mourning Friendship's stifled sigh. 

Ah ! could esteem, or admiration, save 

So dear an object from th' untimely grave. 

This transcript faint had not essay'd to tell, 

The loss of one beloved, revered so well. 

Vainly I try, even eloquence were weak, 

The silent sorrow that I feel, to speak. 

No more my hours of pain thy voice will cheer, 

And bind my spirit to this lower sphere : 

Bend o'er my suffering frame with gentle sigh, 

And bid new fire relume my languid eye : 

No more the pencil's mimic art command, 

And with kind pity guide my trembling hand ; 

Nor dwell upon the page in fond regard, 

To trace the meaning of the Tuscan bard. 

Vain all the pleasures Thou canst not inspire, 

And "in my breast th' imperfect joys expire." 

I fondly hoped thy hand might grace my shrine, 

And little dream'd I should have wepfc o'er thine : 

In Fancy's eye methought I saw thy lyre 

With virtue's energies each bosom fire ; 

I saw admiring nations press around, 

Eager to catch the animating sound : 

And when, at length, sunk in the shades of night, 

To brighter worlds thy spirit wing'd its flight, 

Thy country hail'd thy venerated shade, 

And each graced honor to thy memory paid. 

Such was the fate hope pictured to my view — 

But who, alas ! e'er found hope's visions true? 



2 1 6 TRIE UTAR V A ERSES. 

And, ah ! a dark presage, when last we met, 
Sadden'd the social hour with deep regret ; 
When Thou thy portrait from the minstrel drew, 
The living Edwin starting on my view — 
Silent, I ask'd of heaven a lengthened date ; 
His genius thine, but not like thine his fate. 
Shuddering I gazed, and saw too sure reveal'd, 
The fatal truth, by hope till then conceal'd. 
Too strong the portion of celestial flame 
For its weak tenement, the fragile frame ; 
Too soon for Us it sought its native sky, 
And soar'd impervious to the mortal eye ; 
Like some clear planet, shadow'd from our sight, 
Leaving behind long tracks of lucid light : 
So shall thy bright example fire each youth 
With love of virtue, piety, and truth. 
Long o'er thy loss shall grateful Granta mourn, 
And bid her sons revere thy favor' d urn. 

known," 
When thy loved flower " Spring's victory makes 
The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone : 
Around thy urn the rosemary well spread, 
Whose " tender fragrance " — emblem of the dead- 
Shall ' ' teach the maid, whose bloom no longer lives." 
That " virtue every perish'd grace survives." 
Farewell ! sweet Moralist ; heart-sick' ning grief. 
Tells me in duty's paths to seek relief, 
With surer aim on faith's strong pinions rise, 
And seek hope's vanished anchor in the skies. 
Yet still on thee shall fond remembrance dwell, 
And to the world thy worth delight to tell ; 
Though well I feel unworthy thee the lays 
That to thy memory weeping Friendship pays. 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 217 



STANZAS , 

Supposed to have been written at the Grave of H. K. 

White. 

BY A LADY. 
I. 

Ye gentlest gales ! oh, hither waft, 

On airy undulating sweeps, 
Your frequent sighs, so passing soft, 

Where he, the youthful Poet, sleeps. 
He breathed the purest, tenderest sigh, 
The sigh of sensibility. 

11. 

And thou shalt lie, hisfav'rite flower, 
Pale Primrose, on his grave reclined : 

Sweet emblem of his fleeting hour, 
And of his pure, his spotless mind ! 

Like thee, he sprung in lowly vale ; 

And felt, like thee, the trying gale. 

in. 

Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude, 
O thou, the fragrant Rosemary, 

Where he, ' ' in marble solitude, 

So peaceful, and so deep," doth lie ! 

His harp prophetic sung to thee 

In notes of sweetest minstrelsy. 

IV. 

Ye falling dews, oh ! ever leave 

Your crystal drops these flow'rs to steep ; 

At earliest morn, at latest eve, 
Oh, let them for their Poet weep ! 



218 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

For tears bedew 'd his gentle eye, 
The tears of heavenly sympathy. 

v. 

Thou western Sun, effuse thy beams ; 

For he was wont to pace the glade, 
To watch in pale uncertain gleams, 

The crimson-zoned horizon fade — 
Thy last, thy settling radiance pour, 
Where he is set to rise no more. 



ODE 

ON THE LATE HEXRY KIRKE WHITE. 

And is the minstrel's voyage o'er? 

And is the star of genius fled ? 
And will his magic harp no more, 

Mute in the mansions of the dead, 
Its strains seraphic pour ? 

A pilgrim in this world of woe, 
Condemn'd, alas ! awhile to stray, 

Where bristly thorns, where briers grow, 
He bade, to cheer the gloomy way, 

Its heavenly music flow. 

And oft he bade, by fame inspired, 
Its wild notes seek th' ethereal plain, 

Till angels, by its music fired, 

Have, list'ning, caught th' ecstatic strain, 

Have wonder' d, and admired. 

But now secure on happier shores, 
With choirs of sainted souls he sings ; 

His harp th' Omnipotent adores, 
And from its sweet, its silver strings 

Celestial music pours. 



TRIBUTARY VERSE. 219 

And though on earth no more he'll weave 

The lay that's fraught with magic fire, 
Yet oft shall fancy hear at eve 

His now exalted, heavenly lyre 
In sounds JEolian grieve. 

JUVENIS. 
B. Stoke. 



VERSES 

Occasioned by the Death of Henry KirTte White. 

What is this world at best, 
Though deck'd in vernal bloom, 
By hope and youthful fancy drest, 
What, but a ceaseless toil for rest, 
A passage to the tomb ? 
If flow'rets strew 
The avenue, 
Though fair, alas ! how fading, and how few ! 

And every hour comes arm'd 
By sorrow, or by woe : 
Conceal' d beneath its little wings, 
A scythe the soft-shod pilf'rer brings, 
To lay some comfort low : 
Some tie t' unbind, 
By love entwined, 
Some silken bond that holds the captive mind. 

And every month displays 
The ravages of time, 
Faded the flowers ! — The Spring is past 
The scatter'd leaves, the wintry blast, 
Warn to milder clime : 
The songsters flee 
The leafless tree, 
And bear to happier realms their melody. 



220 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

Henry ! the world no more 
Can claim thee for her own ! 
In purer skies thy radiance beams I 
Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes 
Before th' eternal throne : 
Yet, spirit dear, 
Forgive the tear 
Which those must shed who're doom'd to linger here. 

Although a stranger, I 
In friendship's train would weep : 
Lost to the world, alas ! so young, 
And must thy lyre, in silence hung, 
On the dark cypress sleep ? 
The poet, all 
Their friend may call ; 
And Nature's self attends his funeral. 

Although with feeble wing 
Thy flight I would pursue, 
With quicken' d zeal, with humbled pride, 
Alike our object, hopes, and guide, 
One heaven alike in view ; 
True, it was thine 
To tower, to shine : 
But I may make thy milder virtues mine. 

If Jesus own my name 

(Though fame pronounced it never), 

Sweet spirit, not with thee alone, 

But all whose absence here I moan, 

Circling with harps the golden throne, 

I shall unite forever : 

At death then why 

Tremble or sigh ? 

Oh, who would wish to live, but he who fears to die J 

Josiah Colder. 
Dec. 5th, 1807. 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 221 



SONNET, 

On seeing another written to Henry Kirke White, in 
/September, -1803, inserted in his " Remains by Robert 
jSouthey." 

BY ARTHUR OWEN. 

Ah ! once again the long-left wires among, 
Truants the Muse to weave the requiem song ; 
With sterner lore now busied, erst the lay 
Cheer'd my dark morn of manhood, wont to stray 
O'er fancy's fields in quest of musky flower ; 

To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from view 
And courtship of the world : hail'd was the hour 

That gave me, dripping fresh with nature's dew, 
Poor Henry's budding beauties — to a clime 

Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray 

Forced their young vigor into transient day, 
And drain'd the stalk that rear'd them ! — and shall time 
Trample these orphan blossoms ? — No ! they breathe 
Still lovelier charms — for Southey culls the wreath ! 
Oxford, Dec. 17th, 1807. 



SONNET, 

IN MEMORY OF MR. H. K. WHITE. 

" 'Tis now the dead of night," and I will go 

To where the brook soft-murmuring glides along 
In the still wood ; yet does the plaintive song 

Of Philomela through the welkin flow ! 

And while pale Cynthia carelessly doth throw 
Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among, 
Will sit beneath some oak tree spreading strong, 



22 2 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



And intermingle with the streams my woe 
Hush'd in deep silence every gentle breeze ; 

No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom ; 
Cold, chilling dew-drops trickle down the trees, 

And every flower withholds its rich perfume ; 
'Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground 
Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound ! 

J. G. 



REFLECTIONS. 

(hi reading the Life of the late Henry Kirke White. 

BY WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, AUTHOR OF " THE PEASANT'S 

FATE." 

Darling of science and the Muse, 
How shall a son of song refuse, 

To shed a tear for thee ? 
To us so soon, forever lost, 
What hopes, what prospects have been cross'd 

By Heaven's supreme decree ? 

How could a parent, love-beguiled, 
In life's fair prime resign a child 

So duteous, good, and kind ? 
The warblers of the soothing strain 
Must string the elgiac lyre in vain 

To soothe the wounded mind ! 

Yet Fancy, hov'ring round the tomb, 
Half envies, while she mourns, thy doom, 

Dear poet, saint and sage ! 
Who into one short span, at best, 
The wisdom of an age comprest, 

A patriarch's lengthen'd age ! 

To him a genius sanctified, 
And purged from literary pride, 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 223 

A sacred boon was given : 
Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre 
Celestial raptures could inspire, 

And lift the soul to Heaven. 

'Twas not the laurel earth bestows, 
'Twas not the praise from man that flows, 

With classic toil he sought : 
He sought the crown that martyrs wear, 
When rescued from a world of care ; 

Their spirit, too, he caught. 

Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay, 
Who idly range in Folly's way, 

And learn the worth of time : 
Learn ye, whose days have run to waste, 
How to redeem this pearl at last, 

Atoning for your crime. 

This flower, that droop' d in one cold clime, 
Transplanted from the soil of time 

To immortality, 
In full perfection there shall bloom : 
And those who now lament his doom 

Mubt bow to God's decree. 
London, 27th Feb., 1808. 



ON READING THE POEM ON SOLITUDE, - 

In the second Volume of H. K. White's " Remains." 

But art thou thus indeed " alone? " 
Quite unbefriended — all unknown ? 
And hast thou then His name forgot 
Who forni'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot ? 

Is not his voice in evening's gale ? 
Beams not with him the " star " so pale ? 



224 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



Is there a leaf can fade and die, 
Unnoticed by his watchful eye ? 

Each flutt'ring hope — each anxious fear — 
Each lonely sigh — each silent tear — 
To thine Almighty Friend are known ; 
And say'st thou, thou art " all alone ? " 

Josiah Condeh. 



TO THE MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE. 

BY THE REV. W. B. COLLYER, D.D. 

O, LOST too soon ! accept the tear 
A stranger to thy memory pays ! 
Dear to the muse, to science dear ! 
In the young morning of thy days ! 

All the wild notes that pity loved 
Awoke, responsive still to thee, 
While o'er the lyre thy fingers roved 
In softest, sweetest harmony. 

The chords that in the human heart, 
Compassion touches as her own, 
Bore in thy symphonies a part — 
With them in perfect unison. 

Amidst accumulated woes, 
That premature afflictions bring, 
Submission's sacred hymn arose, 
Warbled from every mournful string. 

When o'er thy dawn the darkness spread, 
And deeper every moment grew ; 
When rudely round thy youthful head 
The chilling blast of sickness blew ; 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 225 

Religion heard no 'plainings loud, 
The sigh in secret stole from thee ; 
And Pity, from the " dropping cloud," 
Shed tears of holy sympathy. 

Cold is that heart in which were met 
More virtues than could ever die ; 
The morning-star of hope is set — 
The sun adorns another sky. 

O partial grief ! to mourn the day 
So suddenly o'erclouded here, 
To rise with unextinguished ray — 
To shine in a superior sphere ! 

Oft genius early quits this sod, 
Impatient of a robe of clay, 
Spreads the light pinion, spurns the clod, 
And smiles, and soars, and steals away ! 

But more than genius urged thy flight, 
And mark'd the way, dear youth ! for thee : 
Henry sprang up to worlds of light, 
On wings of immortality ! 

Blackheath-lrill, 24th June, 1808. 



ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

BY THOMAS PARK, ESQ., P.A.S. 

Too, too prophetic did thy wild note swell, 

Impassion'd minstrel ! when its pitying wail 
Sigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as it fell 

Untimely, wither' d by the northern gale.* 
Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime ; 

Whose opening bloom, 'mid many an adverse blast, 
Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desert clime, 

But charm'd him with a rapture soon o'ercast, 

* See " Clifton Grove," p. 16, ed. 1803. 
15 



226 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

To see thee languish into quick decay. 

Yet was not thy departing immature ! 
For ripe in virtue thou wert reft away, 

And pure in spirit, as the blest are pure ; 
Pure as the dew-drop, freed from earthly leaven, 
That sparkles, is exhaled, and blends with heaven !* 



TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

BY A LADY. 

While in full choir the solemn requiem swells, 
And bids the tranced thought sublimely soar, 
While Sorrow's breath inspires responsive shells, 
One strain of simple grief my reed would pour : 
No splendid offering 
Of lofty praise I bring ; 
Yet, sainted spirit ! own the pensive tear 
Shed in sad tribute on thine early bier. 

Soft as the airs that fan the waking spring, 
And on the margin of some melting rill, 
In music wild their sounds iEolian fling, 

When the pale North regains his empire chill. 
And all his fury dies, 
Thy touching minstrelsies 
With magic sweetness on thy spring arose, 
Then faintly murmuring, sunk to deep repose. 

For thee his glowing torch did Genius fire ! 
Who now its meteor brightness shall recall ? 
Too soon he bore it to thy funeral, 
And bid in drowning tears its flame expire. 
For thee did Fancy weave a chaplet wild, 
And from her woodland bower, 
With many a forest flower 
Enwreathe the brows of her much-favored child ! 



* Young, I think, says of Narcissa, " she sparkled, was exhaled, and 
went to Heaveu." 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 227 

Still they preserve a lasting bloom, 
Bat, ah ! they blossom on thy tomb ! 

Hush'd is the melting cadence of the lyre 
That once could sweetest melodies impart ; 
Its soften'd echoes vibrate on the heart, 
But dews of death have quench'd the poet's fire. 
Sure — 'twas a phoenix flame ; 
Kindled from heaven it came. 
And with its native spark so closely blended, 
That soon to heaven impell'd, it re-ascended. 

As wandering o'er the waste of desert lands, 

Some wearied pilgrim seeks a holy shrine, 
And speeds him o'er the blaze of torrid sands, 

His soul with purest ardor to refine ; 
So to thy sacred turf would I repair, 

And while on Fame's recording page I see, 
Thy polish' d graces, and thy virtues fair, 

Thy wisdom mild or heaven-taught piety, 
The vestige of thy worth would share, 
And thence some precious relic bear. 

What, though no longer beaming here below, 

Thy radiant star of life has ceased to burn, 
Still shall its fire on Fancy's vision glow, 

And Memory shed her moonbeam on thine urn. 
Though early vanish'd hence, an angel band 

Marked its swift progress o'er this realm of night, 
Watch 'd the last lustre of its parting light, 
And hailed its rising on a fairer land. 
Above the flaming zone of day 
Sparkling with exhaustless ray, 
Fixed, shall it shine with living glory bright 
When Time's last midnight long has rolled away. 



228 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



LINES 

Written on visiting the Rooms once inhabited by Henry 
Kirke White] in St. John's College, Cambridge. 

BY MRS. M H, HAY. 

How awful ! how impressive is the gloom, 

How sacred is the silence that prevails 
'Mid these lone walls, where Henry met his doom ! 

My heart is fall, my recollection fails ; 
Earth, and all earthly things, fade from my sight : 

My friends, so loved around me, disappear ; 
I almost see a dawn of heavenly light, 

And Henry's angel voice I seem to hear, 
Saying, " Poor Sister, dry the mortal tear, 

Nor let thy bosom swell with grief for me ; 
Learn first the bleeding cross on earth to bear, 

And then the bliss, now mine, shall gladden thee, 
'Mid scenes celestial e'en my soul can glow, 

And heavenly harmony can with me sing, 
To think these poor ' Remains ' I left below, 

Shall kindred spirits to my pleasures bring. 
But, oh ! could I send down the faintest gleam, 

To wipe the earthy vapors from thine eyes. 
All human wisdom would appea.r a dream, 

And inspiration lead thee to the skies." 



A REFLECTION, 
On the early Death of Henry Kirke White. 

BY A LADY. 

The pensive snowdrop lifts her modest head, 
While yet stern winter binds the icy stream. 

On chilling snow her taper leaves are spread, 
Uncheer'd by balmy dew and summer's beam. 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 229 

Sweet flower ! not long thy spotless heart Avill fear 
The cruel blast that bows thy slender form : 

Thou wert not made for winter's frown severe ; 
Soon wilt thou droop, unconscious of the storm. 

Thus genius springs, and thus the storms of earth 
Nip the young bud, just opening to the day : 

Awhile it blooms, to prove its heavenly birth, 
Awhile it charms, then withers, — dies away. 

Thus Henry graced the world — Too soon the power 
Of stern affliction seized his youthful breast ; 

He saw the clouds arise, the tempest lower, 
He bowed his head, and meekly sunk to rest. 



EXTRACT FROM A POEM RECENTLY PUBLISHED. 

Unhappy White ! * while life was in its spriog, 
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, 
The spoiler came ; and all thy promise fair 
Has sought the grave, to sleep forever there. 
Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, 
When Science' self destroyed her favorite son ! 
Yes ! she too much indulged thy fond pursuit : 
She sowed the seeds, but Death has reaped the fruit. 
'Twas thine own Genius gave the final blow, 
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low : 
So the struck eagle, stretch' d upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 

* Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October, 1806, in conse- 
quence of too much exertion in the pursuit of studies that would have 
matured a mind which disease and poverty could not impair, and which 
death itself destroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such 
beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret, that so 
short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified even 
the sacred functions he was destined to assume. 



230 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, 

And wing'd the shaft that quivered in his heart : 

Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel 

He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel, 

While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest 

Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. 



MONODY 
To the Memory of Henry Kirke White. 

BY JOSEPH BLACKETT.* 



" No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
But living statues there are seen to weep ; 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom ! " 

Lord Bybon. 



To yon streamlet's rippling flow, 
Through the grove meand'ring slow, 
Heart-heaving sighs of sorrow let me pour 
And those " living statues " join, 
For no " marble " grief is mine, 
Mine is sympathy's true tear, 
Love and pity's sigh sincere, 
And to " Affliction's self" I give the mournful hour ! 

What means yon new-raised mould beneath the yew ? 
And why scoop'd out the coffin's narrow cell, 
Fashion' d, alas ! to human shape and size ? 
Why crawls that earthworm from the dazzling ray 
Of day's unwelcome orb ? And why, at length, 
Lingering, advances, with grief-measured pace, 
The sable hearse, in raven plumes array'd ? 

* Vide his Poems, recently published. 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 231 

And, hark ! oh, hark ! the deep-toned funeral knell 
Breathes, audible, a sad and sullen sound ! 

Alas, poor youth ! for thee this robe of death 
Ye Nine, that lave in the Castalian spring, 
Whose full-toned waves, responsive to the strain 
Of your Parnassian harps, with solemn flow, 
Peal the deep dirge around, — pluck each a wreath 
Of baneful yew, and twine it round your lyres, 
For your own Henry sleeps to wake no more ! 

Alas ! alas ! immortal youth ! 
Thine the richly varied song, 
Simple, clear, sublime, and strong ; 

Thy sunny eye beam'd on the page of Truth, 
Thy God adored, and, fraught with cherub fire, 
'Twas thine to strike, on earth, a heavenly lyre ! 
Ah ! lost too soon ! through tangled groves, 

'Midst the fresh dews no more 
He pensive roves 

The varied Passions to explore. 
Silent, silent, is his tongue, , 
Whose notes so powerful through the woodlands rung, 
When on the wing of hoary Time,* 
With energy sublime, 
He soar'd, and left this lessening world below : — 
Hark ! hark ! me thinks, e'en now, I hear his numbers 
flow 
Ah ! no, he sings no more. 

Oh ! thou greedy cormorant fell, 

Death ! insatiate monster ! tell, 

Why so soon was spent the dart 

Which pierced, alas ! his youthful heart ? 

Oh, despoiler ! tyrant ! know, 

When thy arm, that dealt the blow, 

* One of Kirke White's most animated and beautiful Poems, entitled 
" Time." 



232 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



Wither' d sinks, inactive, cold, 

By a stronger arm controll'd, 
Then shall this youth the song of triumph raise, 
Throughout eternity immeasurable days ! 

Bard of nature, heaven-graced child ! 

Sweet, majestic, plaintive, wild ; 

Who, on rapid pinion borne, 

Swifter than the breeze of morn, 

Circled now the Aonian mount, 

Now the Heliconian fount, 
Teach me to string thy harp, and wake its strain 
To mourn thy early fate, till every chord complain ! 

No ! let thy harp remain, 
On yon dark cypress hung, 
By death unstrung : 

To touch it were profane ! 

But, now, oh ! now, at this deep hoar, 

Whik I feel thy thrilling power ; 

While I steal from pillow'd sleep, 

O'er thy urn to bend and weep ; , 

Spirit, robed in crystal light, 

On the fleecy clouds of night, 

Descend ; and, oh ! my breast inspire, 

With a portion of thy fire ; 

Teach my hand, at midnight's noon, 
Hover o'er me while I sing, 
Oh ! spirit loved and bless'd, attune the string! 

Yes, now, when all around are sunk in rest ; 
And the night-vapor sails along the west ; 
When darkness, brooding o'er this nether ball, 
Encircles nature with her sable pall ; 
Still let me tarry, heedless of repose, 
To pour the bosom's — not the Muse's, woes ! 
To thy loved inein'ry heave the sigh sincere, 
And drop a kindred, — a prophetic, tear 1 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 233 



Fast flow, ye genial drops — 

Gush forth, ye tender sighs ! 

And who, dear shade ! can tell — but — 
While thus 1, mournful, pause and weep for Thee, 
Shortly a sigh may heave, — a tear be shed, for me ! 



ON VISITING THE TOMB OF H. K. WHITE. 

BY MRS. M. H. HAY. 

Oh ! spirit of the blest, forgive 
The mortal tear — the mortal sigh 

Thou knowest what it was to live 
And feel each human agony. 

I would not raise thy mould'ring form, 
Nor bring thy spirit from above, 

Could I a miracle perform, 
Much as thy beauteous soul I love. 

No, all I ask in fervent prayer, 
As o'er thy silent tomb I bend, 

That I, in heavenly scenes may share 
Thy converse, and become thy friend. 



LINES 



Written on reading the " Remains of Henry Kirke 
White, of Nottingham, late of St. John's College, 
Cambridge ; with an Account of his Life, by Rob- 
ert Southey, Esq." 

BY MRS- M. HAY. 

Thy gentle spirit now is fled, 
Thy body in its earthly bed 



234 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

Is laid in peaceful sleep ; 
A spirit good and pure as thine, 
Best in immortal scenes can shine, 

Though friends are left to weep. 

When in this dreary dark abode, 
Bewildered in life's mazy road, 

The weary trav'ller sighs ; 
A rising star sometimes appears, 
Illumes the path, his bosom cheers, 

And lights him to the skies. 

Oh, had thy valued life been spared, 
Hadst thou the vineyard's labor shared, 

What glowing fruits of love 
Thou might have added to the stores 
Purchased by Him thy soul adores, 

Now in the realms above. 

Ah ! loss severe ! reflect, ye great, 
Ye rich, ye powerful, on the fate 

Of merit's early doom ; 
Those dazzling gems ye so much prize 
Perhaps in dread array may rise 

In judgment from the tomb. 

A single gem of useless show, 
Might everlasting lustre throw 

Upon the eternal mind ; 
Did gentle offices employ 
Those hours which fashion's ways destroy, 

Those hours for good design'd 

Peruse the letters of a youth, 

Whose pen was dipt in heavenly truth, 

His virtuous struggles trace ; 
Then will thy melting bosom bleed, 
And quicken there the precious seed 

Of self-renewing grace. 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 235 



Then will be clearly understood, 
(< The luxury of doing good : " 

And ! how happy they 
Whose means are great, and hearts are large. 
Who best the sacred trust discharge, 
. To Him who will repay. 



236 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



POEMS, 



WRITTEN BEFORE THE PUBLICATION OF 

CLIFTON GROVE. 



CHILDHOOD : 



A POEM. 



This is one of Henry's earliest productions, and appears, by the hand- 
writing, to have been written when he was between fourteen and 
fifteen. The picture of the schoolmistress is from nature. 

Part I. 

Pictured in memory's mellowing glass, how sweet 
Our infant days, our infant joys to greet ; 
To roam in fancy in each cherish' d scene, 
The village churchyard, and the village green. 
The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade, 
The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade, 
The whitewash' d cottage, where the woodbine grew, 
And all the favorite haunts our childhood knew ! 
How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze, 
To view the unclouded skies of former days ! 

Beloved age of innocence and smiles, 

When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles, 

When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true 

Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue. 

Blest Childhood, hail !— Thee simply will I sing, 

And from myself the artless picture bring ; 




CHILDHOOD. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 237 

These long-lost scenes to me the past restore, 
Each humble friend, each pleasure, now no more, 
And ev'ry stump familiar to my sight, 
Recalls some fond idea of delight. 



This shrubby knoll was once my favorite seat ; 

Here did I love at evening to retreat, 

And muse alone, till in the vault of night, 

Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light. 

Here once again, remote from human noise, 

I sit me down to think of former joys 3 

Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once more, 

And once again each infant walk explore, 

While as each grove and lawn I recognize, 

My melted soul suffuses in my eyes. 

And oh ! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort 
To distant scenes, and picture them to thought ; 
Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye, 
Flings to his soul a borrow' d gleam of joy ; 
Blest Memory, guide, with finger nicely true, 
Back to my youth my retrospective view ; 
Recall with faithful vigor to my mind 
Each face familiar, each relation kind ; 
And all the finer traits of them afford, 
Whose general outline in my heart is stored. 

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls, 
In many a fold, the mantling woodbine falls, 
The village matron kept her little school, 
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule ; 
Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien ; 
Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean 
Her neatly-border'd cap, as lily fair, 
Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care ; 
And pendant ruffles, of the whitest lawn, 
Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. 



238 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE 

Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes, 
A pair of spectacles their want supplies ; 
These does she guard secure, in leathern case, 
From thoughtless Avights, in some unweeted place 

Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain, 

The low vestibule of learning's fane : 

Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way, 

Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display. 

Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn, 

When I was first to school reluctant borne ; 

Severe I thought the dame, though oft she try'd 

To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd ; 

And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept, 

To my lone corner brokenhearted crept, 

And thought of tender home, where anger never kept. 

But soon inured to alphabetic toils, 
Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles ; 
First at the form, my task forever true 
A little favorite rapidly I grew : 
And oft she stroked my head with fond delight 
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight ; 
And as she gave my diligence its praise, 
Talk'd of the honors of my future days. 

Oh, had the venerable matron thought 

Of all the ills by talent often brought ; 

Could she have seen me when revolving year 

Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears, 

Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate 

Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state 3 

Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife, 

Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through life. 

Where in the busy scene, by peace unblest, 
Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest 
A lonely mariner on the stormy main, 
Without a hope, the calms of peace to gain ; 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 239 

Long toss'd by tempests o'er the world's wide shore, 
When shall his spirit rest, to toil no more ? 
Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave 
The sandy surface of his unwept grave. 
Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms, 
Serenest season of perpetual calms, 
Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease, 
And joy to think with thee I tasted peace. 
Sweet reign of innocence, when no crime defiles, 
But each new object brings attendant smiles ; 
When future evils never haunt the sight, 
But all is pregnant with unmixt delight; 
To thee I turn, from riot and from noise, — 
Turn to partake of more congenial joys. 

'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor, 

When the clock spoke the hour of labor o'er, 

What clamorous throngd, what happy groups were seen, 

In various postures scatt'ring o'er the green ! 

Some shoot the marble, others join the chase 

Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race ; 

While others, seafed on the dappled grass, 

With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes pass. 

Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd, 

A band of soldiers, oft with pride we march' d ; 

For banners, to a tall ash we did bind 

Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind ; 

And for our warlike arms we sought the mead, 

And guns and spears we made of brittle reed ; 

Then, in uncouth a -ray, our feats to crown, 

We storm'd some ruin'd pig-sty for a town. 

Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont 
To set her wheel before the cottage front, 
And o'er her spectacles would often peer, 
To view our gambols, and our boyish gear. 
Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round 
With its beloved monotony of sound. 
When tired with play, we'd set us by her side 
(For out of school she never knew to chide), — 



H 



240 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

And wonder at her skill — well known to fame — 
For who could match in spinning with the dame ? 
Her sheets, her linen, which she show'd with pride 
To strangers, still her thriftiness testified ; 
Though we poor wights did wonder much, in troth, 
How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth. 

Oft would we leave, though well beloved, our play, 

To chat at home the vacant hour away. 

Many's the time I've scampered down the glade 

To ask the promised ditty from the maid, 

Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing, 

While we around her formed a little ring : 

She told of innocence, foredoom'd to bleed, 

Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed, 

Or little children murder 'd as they slept ; 

While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept. 

Sad was such tale, and wonder much did we, 

Such hearts of stone there in the world could be. 

Poor simple wights, ah ! little did we ween 

The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene ! 

Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know, 

This world's a world of weeping and of woe ! 

Beloved moment ! then 'twas first I caught 
The first foundation of romantic thought. 
Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear, 
Then first that poesy charm'd mine infant ear. 
Soon stored with much of legendary lore, 
The sports of childhood charm'd my soul no more. 
Far from the scene of gayety and noise, 
Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, 
I hied me to the thick o'erarching shade, 
And there, on mossy carpet listless laid, 
While at my feet the rippling runnel ran, 
The days of wild romance antique I'd scan ; 
Soar on the wings of fancy through the air, 
To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there. 
* * * * 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 241 

Part II. 

There are, who think that Childhood does not share 
With age the cup, the bitter cup of care : 
Alas ! they know not this unhappy truth, 
That every age, and rank, is born to ruth. 

From the first dawn of reason in the mind, 
Man is foredooni'd the thorns of grief to find ; 
At every step has further cause to know, 
The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with woe. 

Yet in the youthful breast, forever caught 
With some new object for romantic thought, 
The impression of the moment quickly flies, 
And with the morrow every sorrow dies. 

How different manhood ! — then does thought's control 

Sink every pang still deeper in the soul ; 

Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart, 

Becomes a painful resident in the heart ; 

And Care, whom not the gayest can outbrave, 

Pursues its feeble victim to the grave. 

Then, as each long-known friend is summon'd hence, 

We feel a void no joy can recompence, 

And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb, 

Wish that ourselves the next may meet our doom. 

Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes pursue, 
No forms of future illsalute thy view, 
No pangs repentant Bid thee wake to weep, 
But Halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep, 
And sanguine Hope through every storm of life, 
Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal strife. 
Yet e'en round childhood's heart, a thoughtless shrine, 
Affection's little thread will ever twine ; 
And though but frail may seem each tender tie, 
The soul forgoes them but with many a sigh. 
Thus, when the long-expected moment came, 
When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame, 

16 



242 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Reluctant throb bings rose within my br 
And a still tear my silent grief express'd. 

When to the public school compell'd to go 
What novel scenes did on my senses flow ! 
There in each breast each active power dilates, 
Which 'broils whole nations, and convulses states; 
There reigns by turns alternate, love and hate, 
Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate ; 
And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere, 
The dark deformities of man appear. 
Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim, 
There Friendship lights her pure untainted flame, 
There mild Benevolence delights to dwell, 
And sweet Contentment rests without her cell \ 
And there, 'mid many a stormy soul, we find 
The good of heart, the intelligent of mind. 

'Twas there, oh George ! with thee I learn'd to join 

In Friendship's bands — in amity divine. 

Oh, mournful thought \ — Where is thy spirit now? 

As here I sit on fav'rite Logar^s brow, 

And trace below each well remember'd glade, 

Where, arm in arm, ere while with thee I stray'd. 

Where art thou, laid — on what untrodden shore, 

Where nought is heard save ocean's sullen roar? 

Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state, 

At last repose from all the storms of fate ? 

Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave, 

Without one aiding hand stretch'd out to save ; 

See thee convulsed, thy looks to Heaven bend, 

And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend. 

Or where immeasurable wilds dismay, 

Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way, 

While sorrow and disease, with anguish rife, 

Consume apace the ebbing springs of life. 

Again I see his door against thee shut, 

The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut : 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 243 

I see thee spent with toil, and worn with grief, 
Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief ; 
Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er, 
Think on thy native land — and rise no more ! 

Oh that thou couldst, from thin august abode, 
Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road, 
That thou couldst see him at this moment here, 
Embalm thy memory with a pious tear, 
And hover o'er him as he gazes round, 
Where all the scenes of infant joys surround. 

Yes ! yes ! his spirit's near ! — The whispering breeze 
Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees : 
And lo ! his form transparent I perceive, 
Borne on the gray mist of the sullen eve : 
He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe, 
While deathly silence regns upon the globe. 

Yet ah ! whence comes this visionary scene ? 

'Tis fancy's wild aerial dream I ween ; 

By her inspired, when reason takes its flight, 

What fond illusions beams upon the sight ! 

She waves her hand, and lo ! what forms appear ! 

What magic sounds salute the wondering ear ! 

Once more o'er distant regions do we tread, 

And the cold grave yields up its cherish'd dead ; 

While present sorrows banish'd far away, 

Unclouded azure gilds the placid day, 

Or in the future's cloud-encircled face, 

Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace, 

And draw minutely every little wile, 

Which shall the feathery hours of time beguile. 

So when forlorn, and lonesome at her gate, 
The Royal Mary solitary sate, 
And view'd the moonbeam trembling on the 
And heard the hollow surge her prison lave, 



244 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Towards France's distant coast she bent her sight, 
For there her soul had wing'd its longing flight ; 
There did she form full many a scheme of joy, 
Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy, 
Which bright through hope's deceitful optics beam'd, 
And all became the surety which it seem'd ; 
She wept, yet felt, while all within was calm, 
In every tear a melancholy charm. 

To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and steed, 

Just yield a scanty sust'nance to the sheep, 

With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped, 

To see the sun rise from his healthy bed ; 

To watch the aspect of the summer morn, 

Smiling upon the golden fields of corn, 

And taste, delighted, of superior joys, 

Beheld through sympathy's enchanted eyes : 

With silent admiration oft we view'd 

The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave strew'd, 

The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade, 

Round which the silvery sunbeam glancing play'd, 

And the round orb itself, in azure throne, 

Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone : 

We mark'd, delighted, how, with aspect gay, 

Reviving nature hail'd returning day ; 

Mark'd how the flowrets rear'd their drooping heads, 

And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads, 

While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight, 

The birds sung paeans to the source of light : 

Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise, 

Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies, 

And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more 

Could trace him in his high aerial tour ; 

Though on the ear, at intervals, his song 

Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along ; 

And we have thought how happy were our lot, 

Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot, 

Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 245 

Began in every dell her forms to weave, 

We might pursue our sports from day to day, 

And in each other's arms wear life away. 

* t sultry noon, too, when our toils were done, 
*Ve to the gloomy glen were wont to run ; 

There on the turf we lay, while at our feet 

The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet ; 

And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore, 

Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more ; 

Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept, 

Sung woe unto the wicked land — and wept; 

Or, fancy led, saw Jeremiah mourn 

In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn. 

Then to another shore perhaps would rove, 

With Plato talk in his Ilyssian grove ; 

Or, wand' ring where the Thespian palace rose, 

Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes. 

Sweet then to us was that romantic band, 

The ancient legends of our native land — 

Chivalric Britomart, and Una fair, 

And courteous Constance, doom'd to dark despair, 

By turns our thoughts engaged ; and oft we talk'd 

Of times when monarch Superstition stalk'd, 

And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome 

Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom ; 

While where the wood-hung Menai's waters flow, 

The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of woe. 

While thus employ'd, to us how sad the bell 

Which summon'd us to school ! 'Twas Fancy's knell, 

And sadly sounding on the sullen ear, 

It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear. 

Yet even then, (for oh, what chains can bind, 

What powers control , the energies of mind ?) 

E'en there we soar'd to many a height sublime, 

And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time. 



246 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

At evening, too, how pleasing was our walk, 

Endear' d by Friendship's unrestrained talk, 

When to the upland heights we bent our way, 

To view the last beam of departing day ; 

How calm was all around ! no playful breeze 

Sigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees, 

But all was still, save when, with drowsy song, 

The gray-fly wound his sullen horn along ; 

And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee, 

The distant church-bells' mellow harmony ; 

The silver mirror of the lucid brook, 

That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took ; 

The rugged arch, that clasp'd its silent tides, 

With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides ; 

The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight ; 

The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight ; 

All, all was pregnant with divine delight. 

We loved to watch the swallow swimming high, 

In the bright azure of the vaulted sky ; 

Or gaze upon the clouds, whose color'd pride 

Was scatter' d thinly o'er the welkin wide, 

And tinged with such variety of shade, 

To the charm' d soul sublimest thoughts convey'd. 

In these what forms romantic did we trace, 

While fancy led us o'er the realms of space 1 

Now we espied the thunderer in his car, 

Leading the embattled seraphim to war, 

Then stately towers descried, sublimely high, 

In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky— 

Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height, 

A ridge of glaciers in mural white, 

Hugely terrific. — But those times are o'er, 

And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more ; 

For thou art gone, and I am left below. 

Alone to struggle through this world of woe. 

The scene is o'er— still seasons onward roll, 
And each revolve conducts me towards the goal ; 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 247 

Yet all is blank, without one soft relief, 

One endless continuity of grief ; 

And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime, 

Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time. 

« 
Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds that pant 
For hoards of wealth which ye will never want ; 
And, lost to all but gain, with ease resign 
The calms of peace and happiness divine ! 
Far other cares be mine. — Men little crave, 
In this short journey to the silent grave ; 
And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and health 
I envy more than Croesus with his wealth. 
Yet grieve not I, that fate did not decree 
Paternal acres to await on me ; 
She gave me more, she placed within my breast 
A heart with little pleased — with little blest : 
I look around me, where, on every side, 
Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride ; 
And could my sight be borne to either zone, 
I should not find one foot of land my own. 

But whither do I wander ? shall the Muse, 

For golden baits, her simple theme refuse ; 

Oh no ! but while the weary spirit greets 

The fading scenes of Childhood's far-gone sweets, 

It catches all the infant's wandering tongue, 

And prattles on in desultory song. 

That song must close — the gloomy mists of night 

Obscure the pale stars' visionary light, 

And ebon darkness, clad in vapory wet, 

Steals on the welkin in primeval jet. 

The song must close. — Once more my adverse lot 
Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot, 
Again compels to plunge in busy life, 
And brave the hateful turbulence of strife. 



248 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Scenes of my youth — ere my unwilling feet 
Are turn'd forever from this loved retreat, 
Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er, 
My eyes are closed to ope on them no more, 
Let me ejaculate to feeling due, 
One long, one last, affectionate adieu. 
Grant that, if ever Providence should please 
To give me an old age of peace and ease, 
Grant that in these sequester'd shades my days 
May wear away in gradual decays : 
And oh, ye spirits, who unbodied play, 
Unseen upon the pinions of the day, 
Kind genii of my native fields benign, 
Who were * * * * 



FRAGMENT 

OF 

AN ECCENTRIC DRAMA. 

WRITTEN AT A VERT EARLY AGE. 

In a little volume which the author had copied out, apparently for the 
press, before the publication of " Clifton Grove," the song with 
which this fragment cemmences was inserted, under the title of 
"The Dance of the Consumptives, in imitation of Shakspeare, taken 
from an Eccentric Drama, written by H. K. W. when very young." 
The rest was discovered among his loose papers, in the first rude 
draught, having, to all appearance, never been transcribed. The 
song was extracted when he was sixteen, and must have been written 
at least a year before — probably more, by the handwriting. There is 
something strikingly wild and original in the fragment. 

THE DANCE OP THE CONSUMPTIVES. 

1. 
Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
Merry, merry, go the bells, 
Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 249 

Over the heath, over the inoor, and over the dale, 

" Swinging slow with sullen roar," 
Dance, dance away, the jocund roundelay ! 
Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away. 

II. 

Round the oak, and round the elm, 

Merrily foot it o'er the ground ! 
The sentry ghost it stands aloof, 
So merrily, merrily, foot it round. 

Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
Merry, merry, go the bells, 
Swelling in the nightly gale. 
The sentry ghost, 
It keeps its post, 
And soon, and soon, our sports must fail : 
But let us trip the nightly ground, 
While the merry, merry, bells ring round. 

in. 

Hark ! hark ! the death-watch ticks ! 
See, see, the winding-sheet ! 

Our dance is done, 

Our race is run, 
And we must lie at the alder's feet. 

Ding-dong, ding-dong, 

Merry, merry, go the bells, 
Swinging o'er the weltering wave I 

And we must seek 

Our deathbeds bleak, 
Where the green sod grows upon the grave. 

{They vanish — The Goddess of Consumption descends, 
habited in a sky-blue Robe — Attended by mournful 
Music.) 

Come, Melancholy, sister mine ! 
Cold the dews, and chill the night : 



• 



250 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Come from thy dreary shrine ! 

The wan moon climbs the heavenly height, 
And underneath her sickly ray, 
Troops of squalid spectres play, 
And the dying mortal's groan 
Startles the night on her dusky throne. 
Come, come, sister mine ! 
Gliding on the pale moonshine : 
We'll ride at ease, 
On the tainted breeze, 
And oh ! our sport will be divine. 

The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a deep 
Glen in the rear, habited in Black, and covered with 
a thick Veil — She speaks.) 

Sister, from my dark abode, 
"Where nests the raven, sits the toad, 
Hither I come, at thy command ; 
Sister, sister, join thy hand ! 
I will smooth the way for thee, 
Thou shalt furnish food for me. 
Come, let us speed our way 
Where the troops of spectres play. 
To charnel-houses, churchyards drear, 
Where Death sits with a horrible leer, 
A lasting grin on a throne of bones, 
And skim along the blue tombstones. 
Come, let us speed away, 
Lay our snares, and spread our tether ! 
I will smooth the way for thee, 
Thou shalt furnish food for me ; 
And the grass shall wave 
O'er many a grave, 
Where youth and beauty sleep together. 

CONSUMPTION. 

Come, let us speed our way ! 
Join our hands, and spread our tether I 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 251 



I will furnish food for thee, 

Thou shalt smooth the way for me ; 

And the grass shall wave 

O'er many a grave, 
Where youth and beauty sleep together. 

MELANCHOLY. 

Hist, sister, hist ! who comes here ? 
Oh, I know her by that tear, 
By that blue eye's languid glare, 
By her skin, and by her hair : 

She is mine, 

And she is thine, 
.Now the deadliest draught prepare. 

CONSUMPTION". 

In the dismal night air drest, 
I will creep into her breast ; 
Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin, 
And feed on the vital fire within. 
Lover, do not trust her eyes, — 
When they sparkle most she dies ! 
Mother, do not trust her breath, — 
Comfort she will breathe in death ! 
Father, do not strive to save her ! 
She is mine, and I must have her ! 
The coffin must be her bridal bed ; 
The winding sheet must wrap her head ; 
The whispering winds must o'er her sigh, 
For soon in the grave the maid must lie. 

The worm it will riot 

On heavenly diet, 
When death has deflower' d her eye. 

[They vanish. 



252 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

While Consumption speaks, Angelina enters. 

ANGELINA. 

With * what a silent and dejected pace 

Dost thou, wan moon ! upon thy way advance 

In the blue welkin's vault ! — Pale wanderer! 

Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopeless love, 

That thus, with such a melancholy grace, 

Thou dost pursue thy solitary course ? 

Hast thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook 

Thy widow'd breast — on which the spoiler oft 

Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds 

Fantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night, 

Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd round 

With its thick fringe thy couch ? — Wan traveller, 

How like thy fate to mine ! — Yet I have still 

One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st \ 

My woes will soon be buried in the grave 

Of kind forgetfulness :— my journey here, 

Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn, 

Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet 

Will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest. 

But thou, unhappy Queen ! art doom'd to trace 

Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night, 

While many a lagging age shall sweep beneath 

The leaden pinions of unshaken time ; 

Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hue 

To cheat thy steps along the weary way. 

Oh that the sum of human happiness 
Should be so trifling, and so frail withal, 
That when possest, it is but lessen 'd grief ; 
And even then there's scarce a sudden gust 
That blows across the dismal waste of life, 

* With how sad steps, O Moon ! thou climb'st the skies, 
How silently, and with how wan a face ! 

Sir P. Sidney. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 253 

But bears it from the view. — Oh ! who would shun 

The hour that cuts from earth, and fear to press 

The calm and peaceful pillows of the grave, 

And yet endure the various ills of life, 

And dark vicissitudes ! — Soon, I hope, I feel, 

And am assured, that I shall lay my head, 

My weary aching head, on its last rest, 

And on my lowly bed the grass-green sod 

Will nourish sweetly. — And then they will weep 

That one so young, and what they're pleased to call 

So beautiful, should die so soon — And tell 

How painful disappointment's canker' d fang 

Wither' d the rose upon my maiden cheek. 

Oil foolish ones ! why, I shall sleep so sweetly, 

Laid in my darksome grave, that they themselves 

Might envy me my rest ! — And as for them, 

Who, on the score of former intimacy, 

May thus remembrance me — they must themselves 

Successive fall. 

Around the winter fire 
(When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals, 
And shrill the skater's irons on the pool 
Ring loud, as by the moonlight he performs 
His graceful evolutions) they not long 
Shall sit and chat of older times, and feats 
Of early youth, but silent, one by one, 
Shall drop into their shrouds. — Some, in their age, 
Ripe for the sickle ; others young, like me, 
And falling green beneath the untimely stroke. 
Thus, in short time, in the churchyard forlorn, 
Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them down, 
And dwell with me, a happy family. 
And oh, thou cruel, yet beloved youth, 
Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn, 
Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse, 
And say that I was gentle, and deserved 
A better lover, and I shall forgive 
All, all thy wrongs ; — and then do thou forget 



254 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

The hapless Margaret, and be as blest 

As wish can make thee. — Laugh, and play, and sing, 

With thy dear choice, and never think of me. 

Yet hist, I hear a step. — In this dark wood — 
* *. * * 



TO A FRIEND. 

WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. 

I've read, my friend, of Diocletian, 

And many another noble Grecian, 

Who wealth and palaces resign'd, 

In cots the joys of peace to find ; 

Maximian's meal of turnip-tops, 

(Disgusting food to dainty chops,) 

I've also read of, without wonder : 

But such a curst egregious blunder, 

As that a man, of wit and sense, 

Should leave his books to hoard up pence,- 

Forsake the loved Aonian maids, 

For all the petty tricks of trades, 

I never, either now, or long since, 

Have heard of such a piece of nonsense ; 

That one who learning's joys hath felt, 

And at the Muse's altar knelt, 

Should leave a life of sacred leisure, 

To taste the accumulating pleasure ; 

And metamorphosed to an alley duck, 

Grovel in loads of kindred muck. 

Oh ! 'tis beyond my comprehension ! 

A courtier throwing up his pension ! 

A lawyer working without a fee, 

A parson giving charity, 

A truly pious methodist preacher, 

Are not, egad, so out of nature. 






POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 255 

Had nature made thee half a fool, 

But given thee wit to keep a school, 

I had not stared at thy backsliding ; 

But when thy wit I can confide in, 

"When well I know thy just pretence 

To solid and exalted sense ; 

When well I know that on thy head 

Philosophy her lights hath shed, 

I stand aghast ! thy virtues sum to, 

And wonder what this world will come to ! 

Yet, whence this strain ? shall I repine 
That thou alone dost singly shine ? 
Shall I lament that thou alone, 
Of men of parts, hast prudence known ? 



LINES, ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON. 

AGE FOURTEEN. 

O WARTON ! to thy soothing shell, 
Stretch' d remote in hermit cell, 
Where the brook runs babbling by, 
Porever I could listening lie ; 
And catching all the Muse's fire, 
Hold converse with the tuneful quire. 

What pleasing themes thy page adorn! 
The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn, 
The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime, 
And melancholy's mournful chime, 
Each with unwonted graces shines 
In thy ever lovely lines. 

Thy muse deserves the lasting meed ; 
Attuning sweet the Dorian reed, 
Now the love lorn swain complains, 
And sings his sorrows to the plains ; 



256 POEMS OF HENRY K1RKE WHITE. 

Now the sylvan scenes appear 
Through all the changes of the year ; 
Or the elegiac strain 
Softly sings of mental pain, 
And mournful diapasons sail 
On the faintly-dying gale. 

But, ah ! the soothing scene is o'er ! 

On middle flight we cease to soar, 
For now the Muse assumes a bolder sweep, 
Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep, 

In strains unheard before. 
Now, now the rising fire thrills high, 
Now, now to heaven's high realms we fly, 

And every throne explore ; 

The soul entranced on mighty wings, 
With all the poet's heat, upsprings, 

And loses earthly woes ; 
Till all alarmed at the giddy height, 
The Muse descends on gentler flight, 

And lulls the weary soul to soft repose. 



TO THE MUSE. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 
I. 

Ill-fated maid, in whose unhappy train 
Chill poverty and misery are seen, 

Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane 
Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene ; 

Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel 
So keenly all the scorns — the jeers of life ? 
Why not endow them to endure the strife 

With apathy's invulnerable steel, 

Or self-content and ease, each torturing wound to heal. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 257 

II. 

Ah ! who would taste your self-deluding joys, 
That lure the unwary to a wretched doom, 

That bid fair views and nattering hopes arise, 
Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb ? 

What is the charm which leads thy victims on 
To persevere in paths that lead to woe ? 
What can induce them in that route to go, 

In which innumerous before have gone, 

And died in misery, poor and woe- begone! 

ill. 

Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found : 
I, who have drank from thine ethereal rill, 

And tasted all the pleasures that abound 
Upon Parnassus, loved Aonian hill ? 

I through whose soul the Muses' strains aye thrill ! 
Oh ! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied ; 

And though our annals fearful stories tell, 
How Savage languish' d, and how Otway died, 
Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide. 



SONG. 



"WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 
I. 

Softly, softly blow the breezes, 

Gently o'er my Edwy fly ! 
Lo ! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly ; 
Softly, zephyrs, pass him by ! 
My love is asleep, 
He lies by the deep, 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

11. 
I have covered him with rushes, 
Water-flags and branches dry. 
17 



258 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



Edwy, long have been thy slumbers ; 
Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye ! 
My love is asleep, 
He lies by the deep, 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

in. 

Still he sleeps ; he will not waken, 

Fastly closed is his eye ; 
Paler is his cheek, and chiler 
Than the icy moon on high. 
Alas ! he is dead, 
He has chose his death-bed 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

IV. 

Is it, is it so, my Edwy ? 

Will thy slumbers never fly ? 
Couldst thou think I would survive thee ? 
No, my love, thou bidst me die. 
Thou bidst me seek 
Thy death-bed bleak 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

v. 

T will gently kiss thy cold lips, 

On thy breast I'll lay my head, 
And the winds shall sing our death-dirge, 
And our shroud the waters spread ; 
The moon will smile sweet, 
And the wild wave will beat, 
Oh ! so softly o'er our lonely bed. 



POEMS OF HENRY KISKE WHITE. 259 



THE WANDERING BOY. 

A SOtfGK 
I. 

When the winter wind whistles along the wild moor, 
And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door ; 
When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, 
Oh, how hard is the lot of the wandering boy ! 

II. 

The winter is cold, and I have no vest, 
And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast ; 
No father, no mother, no kindred have I, 
For I am a parentless wandering boy. 

in. 

Yet I once had a home, and I once had a sire, 
A mother, who granted each infant desire ; 
Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower' d vale, 
Where the ringdove would warble its sorrowful tale. 

IV. 

But my father and mother were summoned away, 
And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey ; 
I fled from their rigor with many a sigh, 
And now I'm a poor little wandering boy. 

v. 

The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, 
And no one will list to my innocent tale ; 
I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie, 
And death shall befriend the poor wandering boy. 



26o POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



FRAGMENT. 



The western gale, 



Mild as the kisses of connubial love, 

Plays round my languid limbs, as all dissolved, 

Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shade 

I lie, exhausted with the noontide heat ; 

While rippling o'er its deep-worn pebble bed, 

The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet, 

Dispensing coolness. — On the fringed marge 

Full many a flowret rears its head, — or pink, 

Or gaudy daffodil. — 'Tis here, at noon, 

The buskin 'd wood-nymphs from the heat retire, 

And lave them in the fountain ; here secure 

From Pan, or savage satyr, they disport ; 

Or stretch' d supinely on the velvet turf, 

Lull'd by the laden bee, or sultry fly, 

Invoke the God of slumber. * * * 

And hark, how merrily, from distant tower, 
Ring round the village bells ! now on the gale 
They rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud \ 
Anon they die upon the pensive ear, 
Melting in faintest music. — They bespeak 
A day of jubilee, and oft they bear 
Commixt along the unfrequented shore, 
The sound of village dance and tabor loud, 
Startling the musing ear of solitude. 

Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide, 
When happy Superstition, gabbling eld ! 
Holds her unhurtful gambols. — All the day 
The rustic revellers ply the mazy dance, 
On the smooth-shaven green, and then at eve 
Commence the harmless rites and auguries ; 
And many a tale of ancient days goes round. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 261 



They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spells 
Could hold in dreadful thrall the laboring moon, 
Or draw the fix'd stars from their eminence, 
And still the midnight tempest. — Then anon, 
Tell of uncharnell'd spectres, seen to glide 
Along the lone wood's unfrequented path, 
Startling the nighted traveller \ while the sound 
Of undistinguished murmurs, heard to come 
From the dark centre of the deep'ning glen, 
Struck on his frozen ear. 

Oh, Ignorance, 
Thou art fall'n man's best friend ! With thee he speeds 
In frigid apathy along his way, 
And never does the tear of agony 
Burn down his scorching cheek ; or the keen steel 
Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast. 

E'en now, as leaning on this fragrant bank, 

I taste of all the keener happiness 

Which sense refined affords — E'en now my heart 

Would fain induce me to forsake the world, 

Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's weeds, 

With a small flock, and short suspended reed, 

To sojourn in the woodland. — Then my thought 

Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss, 

That I could almost err in reason's spite, 

And trespass on my judgment. 

Such is life : 
The distant prospect always seems more fair, 
And when attain'd, another still succeeds 
Ear fairer than before, — yet compass'd round 
With the same dangers, and the same dismay. 
And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze, 
Still discontented, chase the fairy form 
Of unsubstantial happiness, to find, 
When life itself is sinking in the strife, 
'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat. 



262 POEMS OF HENRY K'IKKE WHITE. 



CANZONET. 

I. 

MAIDEX ! wrap thy mantle round thee, 

Cold the rain beats on thy breast : 
Why should horror's voice astound thee ? 
Death can bid the wretched rest ! 
All under the tree 
Thy bed may be, 
And thou mayst slumber peacefully. 

II. 

Maiden ! once gay pleasure knew thee ; 

Now thy cheeks are pale and deep : 
Love has been a felon to thee ; 
Yet, poor maiden, do not weep ; 
There's rest for thee 
All under the tree, 
Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully. 



COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM ON DESPAIR. 

Some to Aonian lyres of silver sound 
With winning elegance attune their song, 
Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense, 
And charm the soul with softest harmony : 
'Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen 
Roving through Fancy's gay futurity ; 
Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure, 
Pleasure of days to come. — Memory too then 
Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad, 
Pensively musing on the scenes of youth, 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 203 

Scenes never to return.* 

Such subjects merit poets used to raise 

The Attic verse harmonious ; but for me 

A dreadlier theme demands my backward hand, 

And bids me strike the strings of dissonance 

With frantic energy. 

'Tis wan Despair I sing ; if sing I can, 

Of him before whose blast the voice of song, 

And mirth, and hope, and happiness, all fly 

Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard 

At noon of night, where, on the coast of blood, 

The lacerated son of Angola 

Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind ; 

And, when the awful silence of the night 

Strikes the chill death-dew to the murd'rer's heart, 

He speaks in every conscience-prompted word 

Half utter' d, half suppress' d — 

'Tis him I sing — Despair — terrific name. 

Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord 

Of timorous terror — discord in the sound : 

For to a theme revolting as is this, 

Dare not I woo the maids of harmony, 

Who love to sit, and catch the soothing sound 

Of lyre iEolian, or the martial bugle, 

Call-ng the hero to the field of glory, 

And firing him with deeds of high emprise, 

And warlike triumph : but from scenes like mine 

Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard 

Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror. 

Hence, then, soft maids, 
And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers 
By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream : 
For aid like yours I seek not ; 'tis for powers 
Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine ! 
'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends ! 



* Alluding to tlje two pleasing poems, tlie " Pleasures of Hopfe " and 
of " Memory." 



264 POEMS OF HENRY K1RKE WHITE. 

Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron, 
Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light, 
And all the myriads of the burning concave ; 
Souls of the damned ; — Hither, oh ! come and join 
Th' infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing ! 
He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang 
Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair ! 
Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power ; 
Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks, 
Till the loud paean ring through hell's high vault, 
And the remotest spirits of the deep 
Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song. 



TO THE WIND. 

AT MIDNIGHT. 

Not unfamiliar to mine ear, 
Blasts of the night ! ye howl as now 
My shudd'ring casement loud 
With fitful force ye beat. 

Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, 
The howling sweep, the sudden rush ; 
And when the passing gale 
Pour'd deep the hollow dirge. 



THE EVE OF DEATH. 

IRREGULAR. 
I. 

Silence of Death — portentous calm, 
Those airy forms that yonder fly, 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 265 

Denote that your void foreruns a storm, 

That the hour of fate is nigh. 
I see, I see, on the dim mist borne, 

The Spirit of battles rear his crest ! 
I see, I see, that ere the morn, 

His spear will forsake its hated rest, 
And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat her naked 
breast. 

II. 

O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep 

No softly-ruffling zephyrs fly ; 
But nature sleeps a deathless sleep, 

For the hour of battle is nigh. 
Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak, 

But a creeping stillness reigns around ; 
Except when the raven, with ominous croak, 

On the ear does unwelcomely sound. 
I know, I know, what this silence means, 

I know what the raven saith — 
Strike, oh, ye bards ! the melancholy harp, 

For this is the eve of death. 

in. 
Behold, how along the twilight air 

The shades of our fathers glide ! 
There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair, 

And Colma with gray side. 
No gale around its coolness flings, 

Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees ; 
And hark, how the harp's unvisited strings 

Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze ! 
'Tis done ! the sun he has set in blood ! 

He will never set more to the brave ; 
Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death — 

For to-morrow he hies to the grave. 



206 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



THANATOS. 

Oh ! who would cherish, life, 
And cling unto this heavy clog of clay — 

Love this rude world of strife, 
Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day ! 
And where, 'neath outward smiles 

Conceal'd, the snake lies feeding on its prey, 

Where pitfalls lie in ev'ry flowery way, 

And syrens lure the wanderer to their wiles ! 
Hateful it is to me, 
Its riotous railings and revengeful strife ; 

I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts 
Dinning the ear ; — away — away with life ! 

And welcome, oh, thou silent maid, 

Who in some foggy vault art laid, 

Where never daylight's dazzling ray 

Comes to disturb thy dismal sway ; 

And there amid unwholesome damps dost sleep, 

In such forgetful slumbers deep, 

That all thy senses stupefied, 

Are to marble petrified. 

Sleepy Death, I welcome thee ! 

Sweet are thy calms to misery. 

Poppies I will ask no more, 

Nor the fatal hellebore ; 

Death is the best, the only cure, 

His are slumbers ever sure. 

Lay me in the Gothic tomb, 

In whose solemn fretted gloom 

I may lie in mouldering state, 

With all the grandeur of the great : 

Over me, magnificent, 

Carve a stately monument ; 

Then thereon my statue lay, 

With hands in attitude to pray, 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 267 



And angels serve to hold my head, 

Weeping o'er the father dead. 

Duly too at close of day, 

Let the pealing organ play ; 

And while the harmonious thunders roll, 

Chant a vesper to my soul : 

Thus how sweet my sleep will be, 

Shut out from thoughtful misery ! 



ATHANATOS. 

Away with death — away 
With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps 

Impervious to the day, 
Where nature sinks into inanity. 
How can the soul desire 
Such hateful nothingness to crave, 
And yield with joy the vital fire 
To moulder in the grave ! 
Yet mortal life is sad, 
Eternal storms molest its sullen sky ; 

And sorrows ev er rife 
Drain the sacred fountain dry — ■ 
Away with mortal life 1 

But, hail the calm reality, 
The seraph immortality, 
Hail the heavenly bowers of peace, 
Where all the storms of passion cease. 
Wild life's dismaying struggle o'er, 
The wearied spirit weeps no more ; 
But wears the eternal smile of joy, 
Tasting bliss without alloy. 
Welcome, welcome, happy bowers, 
Where no passing tempest lowers ; 
But the azure heavens display 
The everlasting smile of day ; 






268 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



Where the choral seraph choir, 

Strike to praise the harmonious lyre ; 

And the spirit sinks to ease, 

Lull'd by distant symphonies. 

Oh ! to think of meeting there 

The friends whose graves received our tear, 

The daughter loved, the wife adored, 

To our widow'd arms restored ; 

And all the joys which death did sever, 

Given to us again forever \ 

Who would cling to wretched life, 

And hug the poison' d thorn of strife— 

Who would not long from earth to fly, 

A sluggish senseless lump to lie, 

When the glorious prospect lies 

Full before his raptured eyes ? 



MUSIC, 



Written "between the ages of fourteen and fifteen, with a 
few subsequent verbal alterations. 

Music, all powerful o'er the human mind, 

Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm, 

Soothe anxious care on sleepless couch reclined, 
And e'en fierce anger's furious rage disarm. 

At her command the various passions lie ; 

She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace, 
Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstasy, 

And bids the jarring world's harsh clangor cease. 

Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire 
With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise, 

Infuse new ardor, and with youthful fire 
Urge on the warrior gray with length of days. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 269 

Far better she when with her soothing lyre 
She charms the falchion from the savage grasp 

And melting into pity vengeful ire, 

Looses the bloody breastplate's iron clasp. 

With her in pensive mood I long to roam, 

At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, 

And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam, 
In calm seclusion's hermit walks recline. 

Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise, 
Of softest flute or reeds harmonic joined, 

With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies, 
And pleased attention claims the passive mind. 

Soft through the dell the dying strains retire, 
Then burst majestic in the varied swell ; 

Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre, 
Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell. 

Romantic sounds ! such is the bliss ye give, 

That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the soul 

With joy I'd yield each sensual wish to live 
For ever 'neath your undefiled control. 

Oh, surely melody from heaven was sent, 

To cheer the soul when tired with human strife 

To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent. 
And soften down the rugged road of life. 



ODE TO THE HARVEST MOON. 

Cum ruit imbriferum ver : 



Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum 
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent : 

Cunct tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. 

Mooet of harvest, herald mild 
Of plenty, rustic labor's child, 



270 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



Hail ! oh hail ! I greet thy beam, 

As soft it trembles o'er the stream, 

And gilds the straw-thatch' d hamlet 

Where innocence and peace reside ; 
'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, 
Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song. 

Moon of harvest, I do love 

O'er the uplands now to rove, 

While thy modest ray serene 

Gilds the wide surrounding scene ; 

And to watch thee riding high 

In the blue vault of the sky, 
Where no thin vapor intercepts thy ray, 
But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way. 

Pleasing 'tis, O modest moon ! 
Now the night is at her noon, 
'Neath thy sway to musing lie, 
While around the zephyrs sigh, 
Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat, 
Ripen' d by the summer's heat ; 
Picturing all the rustic's joy 
When boundless plenty greets his eye, 

And thinking soon, 

Oh, modest moon ! 
How many a female eye will roam 

Along the road, 

To see the load, 
The last dear load of harvest home. 

Storms and tempests, flood and rains, 

Stern despoilers of the plains, 

Hence away, the season flee, 

Foes to light-heart jollity ; 

May no winds careering high. 

Drive the clouds along the sky ; 
But may all nature smile with aspect boon, 
When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh, Harvest 
Moon ! 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 271 

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, 
The husbandman, with sleep-seal'd eyes: 
He dreams of crowded barns, and round 
The yard he hears the flail resound ; 
Oh ! may no hurricane destroy 
His visionary views of joy : 
God of the winds ! oh, hear his humble prayer, 
And while the moon of harvest shines, thy blust'ring 
whirlwind spare. 

Sons of luxury to you 

Leave I sleep's dull power to woo : 

Press ye still the downy bed, 

While fev'rish dreams surround your head, 

I will seek the woodland glade, 

Penetrate the thickest shade, 

Wrapt in contemplation's dreams, 

Musing high on holy themes, 

While on the gale 

Shall softly sail 
The nightingale's enchanting tune, 

And oft my eyes 

Shall grateful rise 
To thee, the modest Harvest Moon ! 



THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG, 

TO THE NIGHT. 

Thou, spirit of the spangled night ! 
I woo thee from the watch-tower high, 
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark 
Of lonely mariner. 

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, 
The distant main is moaning low ; 
Come, let us sit and weave a song — 
A melancholy song ! 



272 POEMS OF HENRY KIEKE WHITE. 



Sweet is the scented gale of morn, 
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam, 
But sweeter far the solemn calm 

That marks thy mournful reign, 

I've passed here many a lonely year, 
And never human voice have heard : 
I've pass'd here many a lonely year, 
A solitary man. 

And I have linger'd in the shade, 
Prom sultry noon's hot beam. And I 
Have knelt before my wicker door, 
To sing my ev'ning song. 

And I have hail'd the gray morn high, 
On the blue mountain's misty brow, 
And try to tune my little reed 
To hymns of harmony. 

But never could I tune my reed, 
At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet, 
As when upon the ocean shore 

I hail'd thy star-beam mild. 

The day-spring brings not joy to me, 
The moon it whispers not of peace ; 
But oh ! when darkness robes the heav'ns, 
My woes are mix'd with joy. 

And then I talk, and often think 

Aerial voices answer me ; 

And oh ! I am not then alone — 

A solitary man. 

*■ 

And when the blust'ring winter winds 
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, 
I lay me on my lonely mat, 

And pleasant are my dreams. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 273 

And Fancy gives me back my wife ; 
And Fancy gives me back my child ; 
She gives me back my little home, 
And all its placid joys. 

Then hateful is the morning hour, 
That calls me from the dream of bliss, 
To find myself still lone, and hear 
The same dull sounds again. 

The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea 
The whisp'ring of the boding trees, 
The brook's eternal flow, and oft 
The Condor's hollow scream. 
18 



j—- 



CLIFTON GROVE. 



TO 
HER GRACE 

THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE, 

THE FOLLOWING 

TRIFLING EFFUSIONS 

OF 

A VERY YOUTHFUL MUSE, 

ARE 
BY PERMISSION DEDICATED 

BY HER GRACE'S 

MUCH OBLIGED AND GRATEFUL SERVANT, 

HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Nottingham. 



(276) 



PREFACE. 



The following attempts in verse are laid before the 
public with extreme diffidence. The author is very con- 
scious that the juvenile efforts of a youth, who has not 
received the polish of academical discipline, and who 
has been but sparingly blessed with opportunities for 
the prosecution of scholastic pursuits, must necessarily 
be defective in the accuracy and finished elegance, 
which mark the works of the man who has past his life 
in the retirement of his study, furnishing his mind with 
images, and at the same time attaining the power of 
disposing those images to the best advantage. 

The unpremeditated effusions of a boy, from his thir- 
teenth year, employed, not in the acquisition of liter, 
ary information, but in the more active business of life, 
must not be expected to exhibit any considerable por- 
tion of. the correctness of a Virgil, or the vigorous com- 
pression of a Horace. Men are not, I believe, frequently 
known to bestow much labor on their amusements : and 
these poems were, most of them, written merely to be- 
guile a leisure hour, or to fill up the languid intervals 
of studies of a severer nature. 

Haq ro otzetoq epyov ayaizaw. " Every one loves his 
own work," says the Stagyrite ; but it was no over- 
weening affection of this kind which induced this pub- 
lication. Had the author relied on his own judgment 
only, these poems would not, in all probability, ever 
have seen the light. 

Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are his motives 
for this publication ? He answers — simply these : the 

(277) 



278 . PREFACE. 

facilitation through its means of those studies which, 
from his earliest infancy, have been the principal ob- 
jects of his ambition ; and the increase of the capacity 
to pursue those inclinations which may one day place 
him in an honorable station in the scale of society. 

The principal poem in this little collection (Clifton 
Grove) is, he fears, deficient in numbers, and harmo- 
nious coherency of parts. It is, however, merely to be 
regarded as a description of a nocturnal ramble in that 
charming retreat, accompanied by such reflections as 
the scene naturally suggested. It Avas written twelve 
months ago, when the author was in his sixteenth year. 
The Miscellanies are some of them the productions of a 
very early age. Of the Odes, that "To an early Prim- 
rose," was written at thirteen — the others are of a later 
date. — The sonnets are chiefly irregular ; they have, per- 
haps, no other claim to that specific denomination, than 
that they consist only of fourteen lines. 

Such are the poems, towards which I entreat the 
lenity of the public. The critic will doubtless find in 
them much to condemn, he may likewise, possibly, dis- 
cover something to commend. Let him scan my faults 
with an indulgent eye, and in the work of that correc- 
tion which I invite, let him remember, he is holding the 
iron Mace of Criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a 
youth of seventeen, and remembering that, may he for- 
bear from crushing by too much rigor, the painted but- 
terfly, whose transient colors may otherwise be capable 
of affording a moment's innocent amusement. 

H. K. White. 

Nottingham. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 279 



TO MY LYRE. 

AN ODE. 
I. 

Thou simple Lyre ! — Thy music wild 

Has served to charm the weary hour, 
And many a lonely night has 'guiled, 
When even pain has own'd and smiled, 
Its fascinating power. 

* 11. 

Yet, oh, my Lyre ! the busy crowd 
Will little heed thy simple tones : 
Them, mightier minstrels harping loud 
Engross, — and thou, and I, must shroud 
Where dark oblivion 'thrones. 

III. 
No hand, thy diapason o'er, 

Well skill'd, I throw with sweep sublime ; 
For me, no academic lore 
Has taught the solemn strain to pour, 

Or build the polish' d rhyme. 

IV. 

Yet thou to Sylvan themes canst soar ; 

Thou know'st to charm the woodland train : 
The rustic swains believe thy power 
Can hush the wild winds when they roar, 

And still the billowy main. 

v. 
These honors, Lyre, we yet may keep, 
I, still unknown, may live with thee, 



280 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep 
Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, 
Beneath the alder tree. 

VI. 
This little dirge will please me more 

Than the full requiem's swelling peal ; 
I'd rather than that crowds should sigh 
For me, that from some kindred eye 

The trickling tear should steal. 

VII. 

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, 

Perhaps from me debarr'd ; 
And dear to me the classic zone, 
Which snatch'd from learning's labor'd throne, 

Adorns the accepted bard. 

VIII. 

And ! if yet 'twere mine to dwell 
Where Cam, or Isis, winds along, 

Perchance, inspired with ardor chaste, 

I yet might call the ear of taste 
To listen to my song. 

IX. 

Oh ! then, my little friend, thy style 

I'd change to happier lays, 
Oh ! then, the cloister' d glooms should smile, 
And through the long, the fretted aisle 

Should swell the note of praise. 




CLIFTON GROVE. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 281 



CLIFTON GROVE. 

A SKETCH IIS - VERSE. 

Lo I in the west, fast fades the lingering light, 
And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. 
No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke 
Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle broke ; 
No more, hoarse clamoring o'er the uplifted head, 
The crows assembling, seek their wind-rock' d bed 
Still'd is the village hum — the woodland sounds 
Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds, 
And general silence reigns, save when below, 
The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow \ 
And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late, 
Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate : 
Or, when the sheep bell, in the distant vale, 
Breathes its wild music on tke downy gale. 

Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, 

Released from day and its attendant toil, 

And draws his household round their evening fire. 

And tells the oft-told tales that never tire : 

Or, where the town's blue turrets dimly rise, 

And manufacture taints the ambient skies, 

The pale mechanic leaves the laboring loom, 

The air-pent hold, the pestilential room, 

And rushes out, impatient to begin 

The stated course of customary sin : 

Now, now, my solitary way I bend 

Where solemn groves in awful state impend, 

And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain, 

Bespeak, blest Clifton ! thy sublime domain. 



282 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Here, lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, 

I come to pass the meditative hour : 

To bid awhile the strife of passion cease, 

And woo the calms of solitude and peace. 

And oh ! thou sacred power, who rear'st on high 

Thy leafy throne where waving poplars sigh ! 

Genius of woodland shades ! whose mild control 

Steals with resistless witchery to the soul, 

Come with thy wonted ardor and inspire 

My glowing bosom with thy hallowed fire. 

And thou, too, Fancy ! from thy starry sphere, 

Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear, 

Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight, 

Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight. 

At thy command the gale that passes by 

Bears in its whispers mystic harmony. 

Thou wav'st thy wand, and lo ! what forms appear ! 

On the dark cloud what giant shapes career ! 

The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale, 

And hosts of Sylphids on the moon-beam sail. 



This gloomy alcove, darkling to the sight, 

Where meeting trees create eternal night ; 

Save, when from yonder stream, the sunny ray, 

Reflected gives a dubious gleam of day ; 

Recalls endearing to my alter'd mind, 

Times, when beneath the boxen hedge reclined 

I watch'd the lapwing to her clamorous brood ; 

Or lured the robin to its scatter' d food, 

Or woke with song the woodland echo wild, 

And at each gay response delighted, smiled. 

How oft, when childhood threw its golden ray 

Of gay romance o'er every happy day, 

Here would I run, a visionary boy, 

Yv^hen the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky, 

And fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form 

Sternly careering on the eddying storm ; 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 283 

And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost soul, 

His voice terrific in the thunders roll. 

With secret joy, I view'd with vivid glare, 

The volley' d lightnings cleave the sullen air : 

And, as the warring winds around reviled, 

With awful pleasure big, — I heard and smil'd. 

Beloved remembrance ! — Memory which endears 

This silent spot to my advancing years. 

Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest, 

In shades like these to live, is to be blest. 

While happiness evades the busy crowd, 

In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud. 

And thou, too, Inspiration, whose wild flame 

Shoots with electric swiftness through the frame, 

Thou here dost love to sit, with up-turn'd eye, 

And listen to the stream that murmurs by, 

The woods that wave, the gray-owl's silken flight, 

The mellow music of the listening night. 

Congenial calms more welcome to my breast 

Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre drest, 

To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers I raise, 

That ye may bless my unambitious days, 

Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife 

May trace with me the lowly vale of life, 

And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave 

May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave'. 

Now, as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, 

A livelier light upon my vision flows. 

No more above, the embracing branches meet ; 

No more the river gurgles at my feet, 

But seen deep down the cliff's impending side 

Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver tid 

Dim is my upland path, — across the Green 

Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between 

The checker'd glooms, the moon her chaste ray sheds, 

Where knots of blue-bells droop their graceful heads, 

And beds of violets blooming 'mid the trees, 

Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze. 



284 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Say, why does man, while to his opening sight, 
Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight, 
And Nature bids for him her treasures flow, 
And gives to him alone, his bliss to know, 
Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms ? 
Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms ? 
And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath, 
Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death ? 
Could he who thus to vile enjoyments clings, 
Know what calm joy from purer sources springs, 
Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife, 
The harmless pleasures of a harmless life, 
No more his soul would pant for joys impure, 
The deadly chalice would no more allure, 
But the sweet portion he was wont to sip, 
Would turn to poison on his conscious lip. 

Fair Nature ! thee, in all thy varied charms, 
Fain would I clasp forever in my arms : 
Thine, are the sweets which never, never sate, 
Thine, still remain, through all the storms of fate. 
Though not for me, 'twas Heaven's divine command 
To roll in acres of paternal land, 
Yet still, my lot is blest, while I enjoy 
Thine opening beauties with a lover's eye. 

Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss 

Has ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss, 

Who, still in abject poverty, or pain. 

Can count with pleasure what small joys remain : 

Though were his sight convey' d from zone to zone, 

He would not find one spot of ground his own, 

Yet, as he looks around, he cries with glee, 

These bounding prospects all were made for me : 

For me, yon waving fields their burden bear, 

For me, yon laborer guides the shining share, 

While happy I, in idle ease recline, 

And mark the glorious visions as they shine. 



»&mM» 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 285 

•— — ■ 

This is the charm, by sages often told, 
Converting all it touches into gold. 
Content can soothe, where'er by fortune placed, 
Can rear a garden in the desert waste. 

How lovely, from this hill's superior height, 
Spreads the wide view before my straining sight ! 
O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground, 
E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound 
My ken is borne, while o'er my head serene 
The silver moon illumes the misty scene, 
.Now shining clear, now darkening in the glade, 
In all the soft varieties of shade. 

Behind me, lo ! the peaceful hamlet lies 

The drowsy god has seal'd the cotter's eyes. 

No more, where late the social fagot blazed, 

The vacant peal resounds, by little raised ; 

But, lock'd in silence, o'er Arion's * star 

The slumbering night rolls on her velvet car ; 

The church-bell tolls, deep-sounding down the glade, 

The solemn hour, for walking spectres made ; 

The simple plough-boy, wakening with the sound, 

Listens aghast, and turns him startled round, 

Then stops his ears, and strives to close his eyes, 

Lest at the sound some grisly ghost should rise. 

Now ceased the long, the monitory toll, 

Returning silence stagnates in the soul ; 

Save when, disturb'd by dreams, with wild affright, 

The deep-mouth'd mastiff bays the troubled night ; 

Or where the village ale-house crowns the vale, 

The creaking sign-post whistles to the gale. 

A little onward let me bend my way, 

Where the moss'd seat invites the traveller's stay. 

That spot, oh ! yet it is the very same ; 

That hawthorn gives it shade, and gave it-name; 

* The Constellation Delphinus. For authority for this appellation, 
vide Ovid's Fasti. B. xi. , 113 



286 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

There yet the primrose opes its earliest bloom, 

There yet the violet sheds its first perfume, 

And in the branch that rears above the rest 

The robin unmolested builds its nest. 

'Twas here, when hope presiding o'er my breast, 

In vivid colors every prospect drest ; 

'Twas here, reclining, I indulged her dreams, 

And lost the hour in visionary schemes. 

Here, as I press once more the ancient seat, 

Why, bland deceiver I not renew the cheat ? 

Say, can a few short years this change achieve, 

That thy illusions can no more deceive I 

Time's sombrous tints have every view o'erspread, 

And thou, too, gay Seducer I art thou fled ? 

Though vain thy promise, and the suit severe, 

Yet thou couldst guile misfortune of her tear, 

And oft thy smiles across life's gloomy way, 

Could throw a gleam of transitory day. 

How gay, in youth, the flattering future seems ; 

How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams ; 

The dire mistake too soon is brought to light, 

And all is buried in redoubled night. 

Yet some can rise superior to the pain, 

And in their breasts the charmer Hope retain : 

While others, dead to feeling, can survey 

Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away; 

But yet a few there be,— too soon o'ercast ! 

Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast, 

And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the gloom, 

To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb. 

So, in these shades, the early primrose blows, 

Too soon deceived by suns, and melting snows 

So falls untimely on the desert waste, 

Its blossoms withering in the northern blast. 

Now pass'd whate'er the upland heights display, 
Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way ; 
Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat, 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 287 



The timid hare from its accustom' d seat. 

And oh ! how sweet this walk o'erhung with wood, 

That winds the margin of the solemn flood ! 

What rural objects steal upon the sight ! 

What rising views prolong the calm delight ! 

The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, 

The whispering birch by every zephyr bent, 

The woody island, and the naked mead, 

The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed, 

The rural wicket, and the rural stile, 

And frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile. 

Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes, 

Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise. 

High up the cliff the varied groves ascend, 

And mournful larches o'er the wave impend. 

Around, what sounds, what magic sounds arise, 

What glimm'ring scenes salute my ravish'd eyes : 

Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed, 

The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head, 

And swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind, 

Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. 

Still, every rising sound of calm delight 

Stamps but the fearful silence of the night ; 

Save, when is heard, between each dreary rest, 

Discordant from her solitary nest, 

The owl, dull-screaming to the wandering moon ; 

Now riding, cloud- wrapt, near her highest noon : 

Or when the wild-duck, southering, hither rides, 

And plunges sullen in the sounding tides. 

How oft, in this sequester' d spot, when youth 
Gave to each tale the holy force of truth, 
Have I long-linger' d, while the milk-maid sung 
The tragic legend, till the woodland rung! 
That tale, so sad ! which, still to memory dear, 
From its sweet source can call the sacred tear. 
And (lull'd to rest stern reason's harsh control) 
Steal its soft magic to the passive soul. 



1 



288 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

These hallow'd shades, — these trees that woo the wind, 

Recall its faintest features to my mind. 

A hundred passing years, with march sublime, 

Have swept beneath the silent wing of time, 

Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade, 

Reclusely dwelt the far-famed Clifton Maid, 

The beauteous Margaret \ for her each swain 

Confest in private his peculiar pain, 

In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair, 

Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair. 

No more the shepherd on the blooming mead 

Attuned to gayety his artless reed, 

No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deck 

His favorite wether's unpolluted neck ; 

But listless, by yon babbling stream reclined, 

He mix'd his sobbings with the passing wind, 

Bemoan'd his hapless love, or boldly bent, 

Far from these smiling fields, a rover went, 

O'er distant lands, in search of ease to roam, 

A self-will'd exile from his native home. 

Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain, 

Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain. 

Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs, 

The echoing vault responded to their vows, 

As here deep hidden from the glare of day, • 

Enamour' d, oft they took their secret way. 

Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name ; 
'Twas there the blushing maid confess' d her flame, 
Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie, 
When evening slumber' d on the western sky. 
That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare, 
Each bears mementoes of the fated pair, 

One eve, when Autumn loaded ev'ry breeze 
With the fallen honors of the mourning trees, 
The maiden waited at the accustomed bower, 
And waited long beyond the appointed hour, 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 289 

Yet Bateman came not : — o'er the woodland drear, 
Howling portentous, did the winds career : 
And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods, 
The fitful rains rush'd down in sudden floods. 
The night was dark ; as, now-and-then, the gale 
Paused for a moment, — Margaret listen'd, pale ; 
But through the covert to her anxious ear, 
No rustling footstep spoke her lover near. 
Strange fears now filled her breast, — she knew not why ; 
She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh. 
She hears a noise, — 'tis he — he comes at last, 
Alas ! 'twas but the gale which hurried past ; 
But now she hears a quickening footstep sound. 
Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound : 
'Tis Bateman's self, — he springs into her arms, 
'Tis he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms. 
" Yet why this silence ? — I have waited long, 
And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among. 
And now thou'rt here my fears are fled — yet speak, 
Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek ? 
Say, what is wrong ? " — Now, through a parting cloud, 
The pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous shroud, 
And Bateman's face was seen ; — 'twas deadly white, 
And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight. 
" Oh, speak, my love ! " again the maid conjured ; 
" Why is thy heart in sullen woe immured ? " 
He raised his head, and thrice essay'd to tell, 
Thrice from his lips the unfinished accents fell ; 
When thus at last reluctantly he broke 
His boding silence, and the maid bespoke : — 
" Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance, 
I on these fields must cast my parting glance ; 
For three long years, by cruel fate's command, 
I go to languish in a foreign land. 
Oh, Margaret ! omens dire have met my view, 
Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true ? 
Should honors tempt thee, and should riches fee, 
Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me, 

19 



290 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



And on the silken couch of wealth reclined, 
Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind ? " 

" Oh ! why," replies the maid, " my faith thus prove ? 

Canst thou ! ah, canst thou, then, suspect my love ? 

Hear me, just God ! if, from my traitorous heart, 

My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part, 

If, when he hail again his native shore, 

He finds his Margaret true to him no more, 

May fiends of hell, and every power of dread, 

Conjoin'd, tnen drag me from my perjured bed, 

And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps, 

To find deserved death in yonder deeps ! " * 

Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew 

A golden ring, and broke it quick in two ; 

One half she in her lovely bosom hides, 

The other, trembling to her love confides. 

4 * This bind the vow," she said, " this mystic charm 

No future recantation can disarm, 

The rite vindictive does the fate involve, 

No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve." 

She ceased. The death-bird gave a dismal cry, 
The river inoan'd, the wild gale whistled by, 
And once again the lady of the night, 
Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light. 
Trembling she viewed these portents with dismay : 
But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away : 
Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart, 
Still melancholy bodings fill'd his heart. 

When to the distant land the youth was sped, 

A lonely life the moody maiden led. 

Still wouid siie trace each dear, each well-known walk, 

Still by the moonlight to her love would talk 

And fancy as she paced among the trees, 

She heard his whispers in the dying breeze. 



* This part of the Trent is commonly called " The Clifton Deeps." 



~] 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 291 

Thus two years glided on, in silent grief ; 
The third, her bosom own'd the kind relief ; 
Absence had cool'd her love, — the impoverished flame 
Was dwindling fast, when lo ! the tempter came ; 
He offered wealth and all the joys of life, 
And the weak maid became another's wife ! 

Six guilty months had mark'd the false one's crime, 

When Bateman hail'd once more his native clime. 

Sure of her constancy, elate he came, 

The lovely partner of his soul to claim. 

Light was his heart, as up the well known way . 

He bent his steps — and all his thoughts were gay. 

Oh ! who can paint his agonizing throes, 

When on his ear the fatal news arose. 

Chill'd with amazement, — senseless with the blow, . 

He stood a marble monument of woe. 

Till call'd to all the horrors of despair, 

He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair ; . 

Then rush'd impetuous from the dreadful spot, 

And sought those scenes (by memory ne'er forgot), 

Those scenes the witness of their growing flame, 

And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame. 

'Twas night — he sought the river's lonely shore, 

And traced again their former wanderings o'er. 

Now on the bank in silent grief he stood, 

And gazed intently on the stealing flood, 

Death in his mien and madness in his eye, 

He watch' d the waters as they murmur' d by ; 

Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his grave — 

Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave. 

Yet still he stood irresolutely bent, 

Religion sternly stayed his rash intent. 

He knelt. — Cool played upon his cheek the wind, 

And fann'd the fever of his maddening mind. 

The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept, 

The paly moonbeam on its surface slept, 

And all was peace : — he felt the general calm 



292 POEMS OF HENRY K1RKE WHITE. 

O'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm : 
When casting far behind his streaming eye, 
He saw the Grove, — in fancy saw her lie, 
His Margaret, lull'd in Germain's * arms to rest, 
And all the demon rose within his breast. 
Convulsive now, he clench' d his trembling hand, 
Cast his dark eye once more upon the land, 
Then, at one spring, he spurn'd the yielding bank, 
And in the calm deceitful current sank. 

Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound, 

As in the stream he plunged, was heard around : 

Then all was still, — the wave was rough no more. 

The river swept as sweetly as before. 

The willows waved, the moonbeam shone serene, 

And peace returning brooded o'er the scene. 

Now, see upon the perjured fair one hang 
Remorse's glooms and never-ceasing pang. 
Full well she knew, repentant now too late, 
She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate. 
But, for the babe she bore beneath her breast, 
The offended God prolong'd her life unblest. 
But fast the fleeting moments roll'd away, 
And near, and nearer drew the dreaded day ; 
That day, foredoom 'd to give her child the light, 
And hurl its mother to the shades of night. 

The hour arrived, and from the wretched wife 

The guiltless baby struggled into life.— 

As night drew on, around her bed, a band 

Of friends and kindred kindly took their stand ; 

In holy prayer they pass'd the creeping time, 

Intent to expiate her awful crime. 

Their prayers were fruitless. — As the midnight came, 

A heavy sleep oppress'd each weary frame. 



♦Germain ia the traditionary name of her husband. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 293 

In vain they strove against the o'erwhelining load, 

Some power unseen their drowsy lids bestrode. 

They slept, till in the eastern blushing sky 

The bloomy morning oped her dewy eye : 

Then wakening wide they sought the ravish'd bed, 

But lo ! the hapless Margaret was fled ; 

And never more the weeping train were doom'd 

To view the false one, in the deeps intomb'd. 

The neighboring rustics told that in the night 

They heard such screams, as froze them with affright ; 

And many an infant at its mother's breast, 

Started dismayed, from its unthinking rest. 

And even now, upon the heath forlorn, 

They show the path, down which the fair was borne, 

By the fell demons, to the yawning wave, 

Her own, and murder' d lover's, mutual grave. 

Such is the tale, so sad, to memory dear, 
Which oft in youth has charm'd my listening ear, 
That tale, which bade me find redoubled sweets 
In the drear silence of these dark retreats ; 
And even now, with melancholy power, 
Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour. 
'Mid all the charms by magic Nature given 
To this wild spot, this sublunary heaven, 
With double joy enthusiast Fancy leans 
On the attendant legend of the scenes. 
This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods, 
And breathes a mellower gloom upon the woods ; 
This, as the distant cataract swells around, 
Gives a romantic cadence to the sound : 
This, and the deep'ning glen, the alley green, 
The silver stream, with sedgy tufts between, 
The massy rock, the wood-encompass' d leas, 
The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees, 
The lengthening vista, and the present gloom, 
The verdant pathway breathing waste perfume ; 



294 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

These are thy charms, the joys which these impart 
Bind thee, blest Clifton ! close around my heart. 

Dear native Grove ! where'er my devious track, 

To thee wili Memory lead the wanderer back 

Whether in Arno's polished vales I stray, 

Or where " Oswego's swamps " obstruct the day; 

Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide, 

The tumbling torrent leaves St. Gothard's side; 

Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse, 

Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views ; 

Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam, 

My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home. 

When splendor offers, and when Fame incites, 

I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights, 

Reject the boon, and wearied with the change, 

Renounce the wish which first induced to range ; 

Turn to these scenes, these well-known scenes once more, 

Trace once again Old Trent's romantic shore, 

And tired with worlds, and all their busy ways, 

Here waste the little remnant of my days. 

But, if the Fates should this last wish deny, 

And doom me on some foreign shore to die ; 

Oh ! should it please the world's supernal King, 

That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing ; 

Or that my corse should, on some desert strand, 

Lie stretch'd beneath the Simoom's blasting hand ; 

Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb, 

My sprite shall wander through this favorite gloom, 

Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove, 

Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove, 

Sit, a lorn spectre, on yon well-known grave, 

And mix its moanings with the desert wave. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 295 



GONDOLINE: 

A BALLAD, 

The night it was still, and the moon it shone 

Serenely on the sea, 
And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock 

They murmur' d pleasantly- 

When Gondoline roamed along the shore, 

A maiden faA fair to the sight ; 
Though love had made bleak the rose on her 
cheek, 

And turn'd it to deadly white. 

Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear 

It fill'd her faint blue eye, 
As oft she heard, in fancy's ear, 

Her Bertrand's dying sigh. 

Her Bertrand was the bravest youth 

Of all our good king's men, 
And he was gone to the Holy Land 

To fight the Saracen. 

And many a month had pass'd away, 

And many a rolling year, 
But nothing the maid from Palestine 

Could of her lover hear. 

Full oft she vainly tried to pierce 

The ocean's misty face ; 
Full oft she thought her lover's bark 

She on the wave could trace. 

And every night she placed a light 

In the high rock's lonely tower, 
To guide her lover to the land, 1 

Should the murky tempest lower. 



296 POEMS OF HENRY KIRRE WHITE. 

But now despair had seized her breast, 

And sunken in her eye : 
" Oh ! tell me but if Bertrand live, 

And I in peace will die." 

She wander' d o'er the lonely shore, 

The curlew scream'd above, 
She heard the scream with a sickening heart, 

Much boding of her love. 

5Tet still she kept her lonely way, 

And this was all her cry : 
v * Oh ! tell me but if Bertrand live, 

And I in peace shall die." 

And now she came to a horrible rift 

All in the rock's hard side, 
A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread 

The cavern yawning w T ide ; 

And pendant from its dismal top 
The deadly night-shade hung, 

The hemlock, and the aconite, 
Across the mouth were flung. 

And all within was dark and drear, 

And all without was calm, 
Yet Grondoline entered, her soul upheld 

By some deep- working charm. 

And, as she enter 'd the cavern wide, 
The moonbeam gleamed pale, 

And she saw a snake en the cia^gy rock, — 
It clung by its slimy tail. 

Her foot it slipp'd, and she stood aghast, 

She trod on a bloated toad ; 
Yet still, upheld by the secret charm, 

She kept upon her road. 



POEMS OF HENRY KTRKE WHITE. 297 

And now upon her frozen ear 

Mysterious sounds arose, 
So, on the mountain's piny top, 

The blustering North- wind blows. 

Then furious peals of laughter loud 

Were heard with thundering sound, 

Till they died away, in soft decay, 
Low whispering o'er the ground. 

Yet still the maiden onward went, 

The charm yet onward led, 
Though each big glaring ball of sight 

Seenr d bursting from her head. 

But now a pale blue light she saw, 

It from a distance came, 
She followed, till upon her sight, 

Burst full a flood of flame. 

She stood appall' d ; yet still the charm 

Upheld her sinking soul, 
Yet each bent knee the other smote, 

And each wild eye did roll. 

And such a sight as she saw there, 

No mortal saw before, 
And such a sight as she saw there, 

No mortal shall see more. 

A burning caldron stood in the midst, 

The flame was fierce and high, 
And all the cave so wide and long, 

Was plainly seen thereby. 

And round about the caldron stout, 

Twelve withered witches stood : 
Their waists were bound with living snakes, 

And their hair was stiff with blood. 



t" 



2o8 POEMS OF HEMRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Their hands were gory, too ; and red 
And fiercely flamed their eyes ; 

And they were muttering indistinct 
Their hellish mysteries. 

And suddenly they joined their hands, 

And uttered a joyous cry, 
And round about the caldron stout 

They danced right merrily. 

And now they stopt ; and each prepared 

To tell what she had done, 
Since last the Lady of the night, 

Her waning course had run. 

Behind a rock stood Gondoline y 
Thick weeds he face did veil, 

And she lean' d fearful forwarder, 
To hear the dreadful tale. 

The first arose : She said she'd seen 

Rare sport, since the blind cat mew'd ; 

She'd been to sea, in a leaky sieve, 
And a jovial storm had brew'd. 

She call'd around the winged winds, 

And raised a devilish rout ; 
And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were heard 

Full fifteen leagues about. 

She said there was a little bark 

Upon the roaring wave, 
And there was a woman there who'd been 

To see her husband's grave. 

And she had got a child in her arms, 

It was her only child, 
And oft its little infant pranks 

Her heavy heart beguiled. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 299 



And there was too in that same bark, 

A father and his son : 
The lad was sickly, and the sire 

Was old, and woe-begone. 

And when the tempest waxed strong, 
And the bark could no more it 'bide, 

She said, it was jovial fun to hear 
How the poor devilJ cried. 

The mother clasp' d her orphan child 

Unto her breast, and wept ; 
And sweetly folded in her arms, 

The careless baby slept. 

And she told how, in the shape o' the wind, 

As manfully it roar'd, 
She twisted her hand in the infant's hair, 

And threw it overboard. 

And to have seen the mother's pangs, 

'Twas a glorious sight to see ; 
The crew could scarcely hold her down 

From jumping in the sea. 

The hag held a lock of the hair in her hand, 

And it was soft and fair ; 
It must have been a lovely child, 

To have such lovely hair. 

And she said, the father in his arms 

He held his sickly son, 
And his dying throes they fast arose, 

His pains were nearly done. 

And she throttled the youth with her sinewy hands 

And his face grew deadly blue ; 
And the father he tore his thin gray hair, 

And kiss'd the livid hue. 



300 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



And then she told, how she bored a hole 

In the bark, and it fill'd away ; 
And 'twas rare to hear how some did swear, 

And some did vow, and pray. 

The man and woman they soon were dead, 
The sailors these strength did urge ; 

But the billows that beat were their winding- 
sheet, 

And the winds sung their funeral dirge. 

She threw the infant's hair in the fire, 

The red flame flamed high, 
And round about the caldron stout 

They danced right merrily, 

The second begun : she said she had done 
The task that Queen Hecat' had set her, 

And that the devil, the father of evil, 
Had never accomplish'd a better. 

She said there was an aged woman, 

And she had a daughter fair, 
Whose evil habits fill'd her heart 

With misery and care. 

The daughter had a paramour, 

A wicked man was he, 
And oft the woman, him against, 

Did murmur grievuosly. 

And the hag had worked the daughter up 

To murder her old mother, 
That then she might seize on all her goods, 

And wanton with her lover. 

And one night, as the old woman 

Was sick and ill in bed, , 
And pondering sorely on the life 

Her wicked daughter led, 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 3 QI 

She heard her footstep on the floor, 

And she raised her pallid head, 
And she saw her daughter, with a knife, 

Approaching to her bed ; 

And said, " My child, I'm very ill, 

I have not long to live ; 
Now kiss my cheek, that ere 1 die 

Thy sins I may forgive." 

And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, 
And she lifted the sharp, bright knife, 

And the mother saw her fell intent, 
And hard she begged for life. 

But prayers would nothing her avail, 
And she screamed loud with fear ; 

But the house was lone, and the piercing screams 
Could reach no human ear. 

And though that she was sick, and old, 

She struggled hard, and fought; 
The murderess cut three fingers through 

Ere she could reach her throat. 

And the hag she held the fingers up, 

The skin was mangled sore, 
And they all agreed a nobler deed 

Was never done before. 

And she threw the fingers in the fire, 

The red flame flamed high, 
And round about the caldron stout 

They danced t right merrily. 

The third arose : she said she'd been 

To Holy Palestine ; 
And seen more blood in one short day 

Than they had all seen in nine. 



302 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



Now Grondoline, with fearful steps, 
Drew nearer to tho flame, 

For inuch she dreaded now to hear 
Her hapless lover's name. 

The hag related then the sports 

Of that eventful day, 
When on the well-contested field 

Full fifteen thousand lay. 

She said, that she in human gore 
Above the knees did wade, 

And that no tongue could truly tell 
The tricks she there had played. 

There was a gallant-featured youth, 

Who like a hero fought : 
He kissed a bracelet on his wrist, 

And every danger sought. 

And in a vassal's garb disguised 

Unto the knight she sues, 
And tells him she from Britain comes, 

And brings unwelcome news. 

That three days ere she had embark'd, 
His love had given her hand 

Unto a wealthy Thane : — and thought 
Him dead in holy land. 

And to have seen how he did writhe 
When this her tale she told, 

It would have made a wizard's blood 
Within his heart run cold. 

Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, 
And sought the battle's bed : 

And soon all mangled o'er with wounds 
He on the cold turf bled. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 303 

And from his smoking corse she tore 

His head, half clove in two, 
She ceased, and from beneath her garb, 

Tlie bloody trophy drew. 

The eyes were starting from their socks, 

The mouth it ghastly grinned, 
And there was a gash across the brow, 

The scalp was nearly skinned. 

'Twas Bertrand's Head ! With a terrible scream, 

The maiden gave a spring, 
And from her fearful hiding-place 

She fell into the ring. 

The lights they fled, — the caldron sunk 

Deep thunders shook the dome, 
And hollow peals of laughter came 

Resounding through the gloom. 

Insensible the maiden lay 

Upon the hellish ground : 
And still mysterious sounds were heard 

At intervals around. 

She woke, — she half arose, — and wild, 

She cast a horrid glare, 
The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled, 

And all was stillness there. 

And through an awning in the rock, 

The moon it sweetly shone, 
And showed a river in the cave 

Which dismally did moan. 

The stream was black, it sounded deep 

As it rushed the rocks between, 
It offered well, for madness fired 

The breast of Gondoline. 



304 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

She plunged in, the torrent moaned 
With its accustomed sound, 

And hollow peals of laughter loud 
Again rebellowed round. 

The maid was seen no more. — But oft 
Her ghost is known to glide, 

At midnight's silent, solemn hour, 
Along the ocean's side. 



LINES WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE 
HEAVENS, 

IN THE MORNING BEFORE DAYBREAK. 

Ye many-twinkling stars, who yet do hold 

Your brilliant places in the sable vault 

Of night's dominions ! — Planets, and central orbs 

Of other systems ! — big as the burning sun, 

Which lights this nether globe, — yet to our eye, 

Small as the glow-worm's lamp S — To you I raise 

My lowly orisons, while all bewildered, 

My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts ; 

Too vast, too boundless, for our narrow mind, 

Warped with low prejudices, to infold, 

And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring, 

Through ye, I raise my solemn thoughts to him ! 

The mighty founder of this wondrous maze, 

The great Creator ! Him ! who now sublime 

Wrapt in the solitary amplitude 

Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres 

Sits on his silent throne, and meditates. 

The angelic hosts in their inferior Heaven. 
Hymn to their golden harps his praise sublime, 
Repeating loud, " The Lord our God is great," 
In varied harmonies. — The glorious sounds 
Roll o'er the air serene — The iEolian spheres, 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 305 

Harping along their viewless boundaries, 

Catch the full note, and cry, " The Lord is great," 

Responding to the Seraphim.; — O'er all, 

.From orb to orb, to the remotest verge 

Of the created world, the sound is borne 

Till the whole universe is full of Him. 

Oh ! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now 
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear, 
And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile 
On the vain world, and all its bustling cares, 
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. 

Oh ! what is man, when at ambition's height, 
What even are kings, when balanced in the scale 
Of these stupendous worlds ! Almighty God ! 
Thou, the dread author of these wond'rous works 1 
Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, 
One look of kind benevolence ? — Thou canst : 
For thou art full of universal love, 
And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart 
Thy beams as well to me, as to the proud, 
The pageant insects, of a glittering hour. 

Oh ! when reflecting on these truths sublime, 

How insignificant do all the joys, 

The gauds, and honors of the world appear ! 

How vain ambition ! Why has my wakeful lamp 

Outwatched the slow-paced night ?— Why on the page, 

The schoolman's labored page, have I employed 

The hours devoted by the world to rest, 

And needful to recruit exhausted nature ? 

Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay 

The loss of health ? or can the hope of glory, 

.Lend a new throb into my languid heart, 

Cool, even now, my feverish, aching brow, 

Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye, 

Or paint new colors on this pallid cheek ? 



306 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Say, foolish one — can that unbodied Fame, 
For which thou barterest health and happiness, 
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave ? 
Give a new zest to bliss ? or chase the pangs 
Of everlasting punishment condign ? 
Alas ! how vain are mortal man's desires ! 
How fruitless his pursuits ! Eternal God ! 
Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth, 
And oh ! assist me so to live on earth, 
That I may die in peace, and claim a place 
In thy high dwelling. — All but this is folly, 
The vain illusions of deceitful life. 



LINES SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER 
AT THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS. 

OCCASIONED BY A SITUATION IN A ROMANCE. 

MART, the moon is sleeping on thy grave, 

And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling, 

The big tear in his eye. — Mary, awake, 

From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight 

On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low, 

Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale, 

Thy whispered tale, of comfort, and of love, 

To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul, 

And cheer his breaking heart. — Come, as thou didst, 

When o'er the barren moors the night- wind howl'd, 

And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne 

Of the startled night. — Oh ! then, as lone reclining, 

I listened sadly to the dismal storm, 

Thou, on the lambent lightnings wild careering, 

Didst strike my moodv eye ; — dead pale thou wert, 

Yet passing lovely. — Thou didst smile upon me, 

And oh ! thy voice it rose so musical, 

Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm, 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 307 



That at the sound the winds forget to rave, 
And the stern demon of the tempest, charin'd, 
Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose, 
Locked in the arms of silence. 

Spirit of her 
My only love !— Oh ! now again arise, 
And let once more thine aery accents fall 
Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm, 
The gloomy wijlows wave in sinking cadence 
With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely swelling 
On the still air, the distant waterfall 
Mingles its melody ;— and high, above, 
The pensive empress of the solemn night, 
Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds, 
Shows her chaste face, in the meridian sky. 
No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll 
Dare now assemble at their mystic revels. 
It is a night, when, from their primrose beds, 
The gentle ghosts of injured innocents 
Are known to rise, and wander on the breeze, 
Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch, 
And strike grim terror to his guilty soul. 
The spirit of my love might now awake, 
And hold its 'customed converse. 

Mary, lo ! 
Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave, 
And calls upon thy name. — The breeze that blows 
On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him, 
In solemn music, a funereal dirge, 
Wild and most sorrowful. — His cheek is pale, 
The worm that preyed upon thy youthful bloom r 
It cankered green on his. — Now lost he stands, 
The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew 
Which bathes his aching temples gives sure omen 
Of speedy dissolution. — Mary, soon 
Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine, 
And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death. 



308 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



MY STUDY. 

A LETTER IN HUDIBRASTIC VERSE. 

You bid me, Ned, describe the place 
Where I, one of the rhyming race, 
Pursue my studies con amove, 
And wanton with the muse in glory. 

Well, figure to your senses straight, 

Upon the house's topmost height, 

A closet, just six feet by four, 

With white- washed walls, and plaster floor, 

So noble large, 'tis scarcely able 

To admit a single chair and table : 

And (lest the muse should die with cold) 

A smoky grate my fire to bold : 

So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose 

To melt the ice-drop on one's nose ; 

And yet so big, it covers o'er 

Full half the spacious room and more. 

A window vainly stuffed about, 
To keep November's breezes out, 
So crazy, that the panes proclaim, 
That soon they mean to leave the frame. 

My furniture, I sure may crack — 

A broken chair without a back ; 

A table, wanting just two legs, 

One end sustained by wooden pegs ; 

A desk — of that I am not fervent, 

The work of, sir, your humble servant 

(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler) ; 

A glass decanter and a tumbler, 

From which my night-parch' d throat I lave, 

Luxurious, with the limpid wave. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 309 

A chest of drawers, in antique sections, 

And sawed by ine, in all directions ; 

So small, sir, that whoever views 'em, 

Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em. 

To these, if you will add a store 

Of oddities upon the floor, 

A pair of globes, electric balls, 

Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls, 

And crowds of books, on rotten shelves, 

Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves ; 

I think, dear Ned, you curious dog, 

You'll have my earthly catalogue. 

But stay, — I nearly had left out 

My bellows destitute of snout ; 

And on the walls, — Good Heavens ! why there 

I've such a load of precious ware, 

Of heads, and coins, and silver medals, 

And organ works, and broken pedals 

(For I was once a building music, 

Though soon of that employ I grew sick), 

And skeletons of laws which shoot 

All out of one primordial root ; 

That you, at such a sight, would swear 

Confusion's self had settled there. 

There stands, just by a broken sphere, 

A Cicero without an ear, 

A neck, on which by logic good 

I know for sure a head once stood ; 

But who it was the able master 

Had moulded in the mimic plaster, 

Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn, 

I never yet could justly learn : 

But knowing well, that any head 

Is made to answer for the dead 

(And sculptors first their faces frame, 

And after pitch upon a name, 

Nor think it aught of a misnomer 

To christen Chaucer's busto, Homer, 



T~ 





3IO POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



Because they both have beards, which you know 
Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno), 
For some great man, I could not tell 
But Neck might answer just as well, 
So perched it up, all in a row 
With Chatham and with Cicero. 

Then all around in just degree 
A range of portraits you may see, 
Of mighty men, and eke of women 
WJio are no whit inferior to men. 

With these fair dames, and heroes round, 

I call my garret classic ground. 

For though confined, 'twill well contain 

The ideal flights of Madam Brain. 

No dungeon's walls, no cell confined, 

Can cramp the energies of mind ! 

Thus, though my heart may seem so small, 

I've friends and 'twill contain them all ; 

And should it e'er become so cold 

That these it will no longer hold, 

No more may heaven her blessings give, 

I shall not then be fit to live. 



TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire 1 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 

Was nursed in whirling storms 

And cradled in the winds. 

Thee, when young spring first question'd winter's sway, 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight 

Thee on this bank he threw 

To mark his victory. 



POEMS OF HENR Y KIRKE WHITE. 3 1 1 



In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 

Unnoticed and alone, 

Thy tender elegance. 

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk 

Of life, she rears her head 

Obscure and unobserved ; 

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows, 
Chastens her spotless purity of breast, 

And hardens her to bear 

Serene the ills of life. 



SONNETS. 



SONNET I. 

TO THE RIVER TRENT. — WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM 

SICKNESS. 

Once more, O Trent ! along thy pebbly marge 

A pensive invalid, reduced and pale, 
From the close sick-room newly let at large, 
Woos to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale. 
Oh ! to his ear how musical the tale 

Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat ! 
And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, 

How wildly novel on his senses float ! 
It was on this, that many a sleepless night, 

As, lone, he watched the taper's sickly gleam, 
And at his casement heard, with wild affright, 

The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream, 
On this he thought, this, this his sole desire, 
Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir. 



312 POEMS OF HENRY Kl'KKE WHITE. 



SONNET II. 

Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, 

Where, far from cities, I may spend my days : 
And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, 

May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. 
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, 

List to the mountain torrent's distant noise, 
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, 

I shall not want the world's delusive joys ; 
But, with my little scrip, my book, my lyre, 

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more ; 
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, 

I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, 
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave 
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave. 



SONNET III.* 

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED BY A FEMAL3 
LUNATIC TO A LADY. 

Lady, thou weepest for the Maniac's woe, 

And thou art fair, and thou, like me art young, 
Oh may thy bosom never, never know 

The pangs with which my wretched heart is wrung. 
I had a mother once — a brother too — 

(Beneath yon yew my father rests his head :) 
I had a lover once, — and kind, and true. 

But mother, brother, lover, all are fled t 
Yet, whence the tear, which dims thy lovely eye? 

O gentle lady — not for me thus weep, 

*This quatorzain had its rise from an elegant sonnet, " occasioned by 
seeing a young female lunatic," written by Mrs. Lofft, aud published in 
the " Monthly Mirror." 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 313 

The green sod soon upon my breast will lie, 
And soft and sound, will be my peaceful sleep. 

Go thou, and pluck the roses while they bloom — 
My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb. 



SONNET IV. 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY THE UNHAPPY POET 
DERMODY, IN A STORM, WHILE ON BOARD A SHIP 
IN HIS MAJESTY'S SERVICE. 

Lo ! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds 
Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind 

Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds, 
While the pale pilot o'er the helm reclined, 

Lists to the changeful storm : and as he plies 
His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him, sad, 
Of wife, and little home, and chubby lad, 

And the half -strangled tear bedews his eyes ; 

I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn, 

View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, 
Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep, 

For not for me shall wife, or children mourn, 

And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell 

Sweetly as solemn peal of pious passing-bell. 



SONNET V. 

THE WINTER TRAVELLER. 

God help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far ; 
The wind is bitter keen— the snow o'erlays 
The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways, * 

And darkness will involve thee— No kind star 



3 1 4 POEMS OF HENR Y KIRKE WHITE. 



To-night will guide thee, Traveller, — and the war 
Of winds and elements on thy head will break, 
And in thy agonizing ear the shriek, 
Of spirits howling on their stormy car, 
Will often ring appalling — I portend 
A dismal night — and on my wakeful bed 
Thoughts, Traveller, of thee, will fill my head, 
And him, who rides where wind and waves contend, 
And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide 
His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide. 



SONNET VI. 

BY CAPEL LOFPT, ESQ. 

[TMb Sonnet was addressed to the author of this volume, and was occa- 
sioned by several little quatorzains, misnomered sonnets, which he 
published in the " Monthly Mirror." He begs leave to return his 
thanks to the much respected writer for the permission so politely 
granted to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has been pleased 
to express of his productions.] 

Ye, whose aspirings court the muse of lays, 
"Severest of those orders which belong, 
Distinct and separate, to Delphic song," 

Why shun the Sonnet's undulating maze ? 

And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days, 

Assume, its rules disown' d ? whom from the throng 

The Muse selects, their ear the charm obeys 
Of its full harmony : — they fear to wrong 

The Sonnet, by adorning with a name 

Of that distinguished import, lays though sweet, 
Yet not in magic texture taught to meet 

Of that so varied and peculiar frame. 

Oh think ! to vindicate its genuine praise 

Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favoring impulse sways. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 315 



SONNET VII. 

RECANTATORY, IN REPLY TO THE FOREGOING- ELEGANT 

ADMONITION. 

Let the sublimer Muse, who, wrapt in night, 
Rides on the raven pennons of the storm, 
Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, 

Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight ; 

Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight, 
Disdain the plaintive Sonnet's little form, 
And scorn to its wild cadence to conform, 

The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight. 

But me, far lowest of thy sylvan train, 

Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest shade 
With wildest song \ — Me, much behoves thy aid 

Of mingled melody, to grace my strain, 

And give it power to please, as soft it flows 

Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close. 



SONNET VIII. 

ON HEARING THE SOUNDS OF AN ^OLIAN HARP. 

So ravishingly soft upon the tide 
Of the enf uriate gust, it did career, 
It might have soothed its rugged charioteer, 

And sunk him to a zephyr ; — then it died, 

Melting in melody : — and I descried 

Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear 
Of Druid sage, who on the far-off ear 

Poured his long song, to which the surge replied 

Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell. 
Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds, 



31 6 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

By unseen beings sung ; or are these sounds, 
Such as, 'tis said, at night are known to swell 
By startled shepherd on the lonely heath, 
Keeping his night-watch sad, portending death ? 



SONNET IX. 

What art thou, Mighty One ! and where thy seat ? 

Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands. 

And thou dost bear within thine awful hands, 
The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet. 
Stern on thy dark- wrought car of cloud, and wind, 

Thou guidest the northern storm at night's dead 
noon, 

Or on the red wing of the fierce Monsoon, 
Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. 
In the drear silence of the polar span 

Dost thou repose ? or in the solitude 
Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan 

Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood ? 
Vain thought ! the confines of his throne to trace, 
Who glows through all the fields of boundless space. 



A BALLAD. 

Be hushed, be hushed, ye bitter winds, 

Ye pelting rains a little rest ; 
Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, 

That wring with grief my aching breast. 

Oh, cruel was my faithless love, 
To triumph o'er an artless maid : 

Oh, cruel was my faithless love, 
To leave the breast by him betrayed. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 317 

When exiled from iny native home, 
He should have wiped the bitter tear: 

Nor left me faint and lone to roam, 
A heart-sick weary wanderer here. 

My child moans sadly in my arms, 
The winds they will not let it sleep ; 

Ah, little knows the hapless babe, 

What makes its wretched mother weep. 

Now lie thee still, my infant dear, 

I cannot bear thy sobs to see, 
Harsh is thy father, little one, 

And never will he shelter thee. 

Oh, that I were but in my grave, 

And winds were piping o'er me loud, 

And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, 
Wert nestling in thy mother's shroud. 



THE LULLABY 

OF A FUMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD, THE NIGHT PRE- 
VIOUS TO EXECUTION. 

* Sleep, baby mine, enkerchieft on my bosom, 
Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast ; 

Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother, 
To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest. 

Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining, 
Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled ; 

Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning, 
And I w r ould fain compose my aching head. 

Poor wayward wretch ! and who will heed thy weeping, 
When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be : 

* Sir Philip Sidney has a poem beginning " Sleep, baby mine." 



— I 



318 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's sleeping 
In her low grave of shame and infamy ! 

Sleep, baby mine. — To-morrow I must leave thee, 
And I would snatch an interval of rest ; 

Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave thee, 
For never more thou'lt press thy mother's breast. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 319 



POEMS, 



WRITTEN DURING, OR SHORTLY AFTER, THE PUBLICATION 

OF 

CLIFTON GROVE. 



ODE 



ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ., It. A., ON SEEING EN- 
GRAVINGS FROM HIS DESIGNS. 

Mighty Magician ! who on Torneo's brow, 

When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, 
Are wont to sit and catch the gleam of light 

That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below ; 

And listen to the distant death-shriek long 

From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, 
Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, 

While the weird sisters weave the horrid song : 
Or when along the liquid sky 
Serenely chant the orbs on high, 
Dost love to sit in musing trance 
And mark the northern meteor's dance 
(While far below the fitful oar 
Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore), 
And list the music of the breeze, 
That sweeps by fits the bending seas ; 
And often bears with sudden swell 
The shipwrecked sailor's funeral knell, 
By the spirits sung who keep 
Their night watch on the treacherous deep, 



320 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

And guide the wakeful helmsman's eye 

To Helice in northern sky ; 

And there upon the rock inclined 

With mighty visions fill'st the mind, 

Such as bound in magic spell 
* Him who grasped the gates of hell, 
And bursting Pluto's dark domain 
Held to the day the Terrors of his reign. 

Genius of Horror and romantic awe, 

Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, 
Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep, 

Can force the inmost soul to own its law ; 
Who shall now, sublimest spirit, 
Who shall now thy wand inherit, 
From him f thy darling child who best 
Thy shuddering images exprest ? 
Sullen of soul and stern and proud, 
His gloomy spirit spurned the crowd, 
And now he lays his aching head 

In the dark mansion of the silent dead. 

Mighty Magician ! long thy wand has lain 
Buried beneath the unfathomable deep ; 
And oh ! forever must its efforts sleep, 
May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain ! 
Oh yes, 'tis his ! — Thy other son 
He throws thy dark- wrought Tunic on, 
Fusslin waves thy wand, — again they rise, 
Again thy wildering form salutes our ravished eyes. 
Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep 

Where round his head the volley'd lightnings flung, 
And the loud winds that round his pillow rang 
Woo'd the stern infant to the arms of sleep. 

Or on the highest top of Teneriffe, 
Seated the fearless Boy, and bade him look 

* Dante. t Ibid. 



POMES OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 32 1 

Where far below the weather-beaten skiff 
On the Gulf bottom of the ocean strook. 

Thou inark'dst him drink with ruthless ear 
The death-sob, and disdaining rest, 
Thou sawest how danger fired his breast, 
And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear. 

Then Superstition at thy call, 

She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, 

And set before his awe-struck sight 

The savage feast and spectred fight ; 

And summoned from his mountain tomb 

The ghastly warrior son of gloom, 

His fabled runic rhymes to sing 

While fierce Hresvelger flapped his wing ; 

Thou showedst the trains the shepherd sees, 

Laid on the stormy Hebrides, 

Which on the mists of evening gleam 

Or crowd the foaming desert stream ; 

Lastly, her storied hand she waves 

And lays him in Florentian caves ; 

There milder fables lovelier themes 

Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams, 

There pity's lute arrests his ear, 

And draws the half-reluctant tear : 

And now at noon of night he roves 

Along the embowering moonlight groves, 

And as from many a cavern' d dell 

The hollow wind is heard to swell, 

He thinks some troubled spirit sighs, . 

And as upon the turf he lies, 

Where sleeps the silent beam of night, 

He sees below the gliding sprite, 

And hears in Fancy's organs sound 

Aerial music warbling round. 

Taste lastly comes and smoothes the whole, 
And breathes her polish o'er his soul ; 

21 



~ 



322 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Glowing with wild, yet chastened heat, 
The wonderous work is now complete. 
The Poet dreams :— The shadow flies, 
And fainting fast its image dies. 
Bat lo ! the Painter's magic force 
Arrest the phantom's fleeting course ; 
It lives— it lives — the canvas glows, 
And tenfold vigor o'er it flows. 

The Bard beholds the work achieved, 
And as he sees the shadow rise, 
Sublime before his Avandering eyes, 

Starts at the image his own mind conceived. 



ODE, 

ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE, E.G. 

Retired, remote from human noise, 

A humble Poet dwelt serene, 
His lot was lowly, yet his joys 

Were manifold I ween. 
He laid him by the brawling brook 
At eventide to ruminate, 

He watched the swallow swimming round, 
And mused, in reverie profound, 
On wayward man's unhappy state, 

And pondered much, and paused on deeds of ancient 
date. 

II. 1. 

" Oh, 'twas not always thus," he cried, 
" There was a time when genius claimed 

Respect from even towering pride, 
Not hung her head ashamed : 

But now to wealth alone we bow, 
The titled, and the rich alone, 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 3 2 3 



Are honored, while meek merit pines, 

On penury's wretched couch reclines, 
Unheeded in his dying moan. 
As, overwhelmed with want and woe, he sinks unknown. 

in. 1. 

Yet was the Muse not always seen 

In poverty's dejected mien, 

Not always did repining rue, 

And misery her steps pursue. 
Time was. when nobles thought their titles graced, 
By the sweet honors of poetic bays, 

When Sidney sung his melting song, 

When Sheffield joined the harmonious throng, 
And Lyttleton attuned to love his lays, 
Those days are gone — alas, forever gone ! 

No more our nobles love to grace 
Their brows with anadems, by genius won, 

But arrogantly deem the Muse as base ; 
How differently thought the sires of this degenerate 

race ! " 

I. 2. 

Thus sang the minstrel :— still at eve 

The upland's woody shades among 
In broken measures did he grieve, 

With solitary song. 
And still his shame was aye the same, 

Neglect had stung him to the core ; 
And he, with pensive joy did love 
To seek the still congenial grove, 

And muse on all his sorrows o'er, 
And vow that he would join the abjured world no more. 

II. 2. 

But human vows, how frail they be ! 

Fame brought Carlisle unto his view, 
And all amazed, he thought to see 

The Augustan age anew. 



324 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Filled with wild rapture, up he rose, 
No more he ponders on the woes, 
Which erst he felt that forward goes, 
Regrets he'd sunk in impotence, 
And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence. 

in. 2. 

Ah ! silly man, yet smarting sore, 
With ills which in the world he bore, 
Again on futile hope to rest. 
An unsubstantial prop at best, 
And not to know one swallow makes no summer ! 

Ah ! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam, 
Which flashed across the hemisphere, 
Illumining the darkness there, 

Was but a simple solitary beam, 
While all around remained in customed night. 

Still leaden ignorance reigns serene, 
In the false court's delusive height, 

And only one Carlisle is seen, 
To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady light. 



DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE. 

Down the sultry arc of day, 

The burning wheels have urged their way, 

And Eve along the western skies 

Sheds her intermingling dyes. 

Down the deep, the miry lane, 

Creeking comes the empty wain, 

And Driver on the shaft-horse sits, 

Whistling now and then by fits ; 

And oft, with his accustomed call, 

Urging on the sluggish Ball. 

The barn is still, the master's gone, 

And Thresher puts his jacket on, 




^Jggg*"-* 1 -:* 



DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER EVENING. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 325 

While Dick, upon the ladder tall, 
Nails the dead kito to the wall. 
Here comes shepherd Jack at last, 
He has penned tho sheep-cote fast, 
For 'twas but two nights before, 
A lamb was eaten on the moor : 
His empty wallet Rover carries, 
Nor for Jack, when near home, tarries. 
With lolling tongue he runs to try, 
If the horse-trou gh be not dry, 
The milk is settled in the pans, 
And supper messes in the cans ; 
In the hovel carts are wheeled, 
And both the colts are drove a-field ; 
The horses are all bedded up, 
And the ewe is with the tup. 
The snare for Mister Fox is set. 
The leaven laid, the thatching wet, 
And Bess has slinked away to talk 
With Roger in the holly-walk. 

Now on the settle all, but Bess, 
Are set to eat their supper mess ; 
And little Tom, and roguish Kate, 
Are swinging on the meadow gate. 
Now they chat of various things, 
Of taxes, ministers, and kings, 
Or else tell all the village news, 
How madam did the 'squire refuse ; 
How parson on his tithes was bent, 
And landlord oft distrained for rent. 
Thus do they talk, till in the sky 
The pale eyed moon is mounted high, 
And from the alehouse drunken Ned 
Had reeled — then hasten all to bed. 
The mistress sees that lazy Kate 
The happing coal on kitchen grate 



326 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Has laid — while master goes throughout, 
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff ut, 
The candies safe, the hearths all clear, 
And nought from thieves or fire to fear ; 
Then both to bed together creep, 
And join the general troop of sleep. 



TO CONTEMPLATION. 

Come, pensive sage, who lovest to dwell, 
In some retired Lapponian cell, 
Where far from noise, and riot rude, 
Resides sequestered solitude. 
Come, and o'er my longing soul 
Throw thy dark and«russet stole, 
And open to my duteous eyes, 
The volume of thy mysteries. 

I will meet thee on the hill, 
Where, with printless footstep still 
The morning in her buskin gray, 
Springs upon her eastern way ; 
While the frolic zephyrs stir, 
Playing with the gossamer, 
And, on ruder pinions borne, 
Shake the dew-drops from the thorn. 
There, as o'er the fields we pass 
Brushing with hasty feet the grass, 
We will startle from her nest, 
The lively lark with speckled breast. 
And hear the floating clouds among 
Her gale-transported matin song, 
Or on the upland stile embowered, 
With fragrant hawthorn snowy flowered, 
Will sauntering sit, and listen still, 
To the herdsman's oaten quill, 
Wafted from the plain below ; 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. Z 2 1 

Or the heifer's frequent low ; 

Or the milkmaid in the grove, 

Singing of one that died for love. 

Or when the noontide heats oppress, 

We will seek the dark recess, 

Where, in the embowered translucent stream, 

The cattle shun the sultry beam, 

And o'er us, on the marge reclined, 

The drowsy fly her horn shall wind, 

While echo, from her ancient oak, 

Shall answer to the woodman's stroke ; 

Or the little peasant's song, 

Wandering lone the glens among, 

His artless lip with berries dyed, 

And feet through ragged shoes descried, 

But oh, when evening's virgin queen 
Sits on her fringed throne serene, 
And mingling whispers rising near, 
Steal on the still reposing ear ; 
While distant brooks decaying round, 
Augment the mixed dissolving sound, 
And the zephyr flitting by, 
Whispers mystic harmony. 
We will seek the woody lane 
By the hamlet, on the plain, 
Where the weary rustic night, 
Shall whistle his wild melody, 
And the croaking wicket oft 
Shall echo from the neighboring croft ; 
And as we trace the green path lone, 
With moss and rank weeds overgrown, 
We will muse on pensive lore, 
Till the full soul brimming o'er, 
Shall in our upturned eyes appear, 
Embodied in a quivering tear. 
Or else, serenely silent, sit 
By the brawling rivulet, 



328 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 

Which on its calm unruffled breast, 
Rears the old mossy arch impressed, 
That clasps its secret stream of glass, 
Half hid in shrubs and waving grass, 
The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, 
Unpressed by fawn or sylvan's feet, 
We'll watch in Eve's ethereal braid, 
The rich vermilion slowly fade ; 
Or catch, faint twinkling from afar, 
The first glimpse of the eastern star. 
Fair vesper, mildest lamp of light, 
That heralds in imperial night : 
Meanwhile, upon our wondering ear, 
Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear, 
The distant sounds of pastoral lute, 
Invoking soft the sober suit 
Of dimmest darkness — fitting well 
With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, 
(So erst did music's silver tone, 
Wake slumbering chaos on his throne.) 
And haply, then, with sudden swell, 
Shall roar the distant curfew bell, 
While in the castle's mouldering tower, 
The hooting owl is heard to pour 
Her melancholy song, and scare 
Bull silence brooding in the air. 
Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car, 
Black-suited night drives on from far, 
And Cynthia's 'merging from her rear, 
Arrests the waxing darkness drear, 
And summons to her silent call 
Sweeping in their airy pall 
The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance, 
To join her moonshine morrice-dance ; 
While around the mystic ring, 
The shadowy shapes elastic spring. 
Then with a passing shriek they fly, 
Wrapt in mists along the sky, 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 329 

And oft are by the shepherd seen, 
In his lone night watch on the green. 

Then, hermit, let us turn our feet, 

To the low Abbey's still retreat, 

Embowered in the distant glen, 

Far from the haunts of busy men, 

Where, as we sit upon the tomb, 

The glow-worm's light may gild the gloom, 

And show to fancy's saddest eye, 

"Where some lost hero's ashes lie. 

And oh, as through the mouldering arch, 

With ivy filled and weeping larch, 

The night gale whispers sadly clear, 

Speaking dear things to fancy's ear, 

We'll hold communion with the shade, 

Of some deep-wailing ruined maid — 

Or call the ghost of Spencer down, 

To tell of woe and fortune's frown ; 

And bid us cast the eye of hope, 

Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. 

Or if these joys, to us denied, 

To linger hy the forest's side ; 

Or in the meadow or the wood, 

Or by the lone romantic flood ; 

Let us in the busy town, 

When sleep's dull streams the people drown, 

Far from drowsy pillows flee, 

And turn the church's massy key ; 

Then, as through the painted glass, 

The moon's pale beams obscurely pass, 

And darkly on the trophied wall, 

Her faint ambiguous shadows fall ; 

Let us, while the faint winds wail, 

Through the long reluctant aisle, 

As we pace with reverence meet, 

Count the echoings of our feet ; 

While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, 



330 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Distinct responds the voice of death. 
If thou, mild sage, will condescend, 
Thus on my footsteps to attend, 
To thee my lonely lamp shall burn, 
By fallen Genius' sainted urn ! 
As o'er the scroll of Time I pour, 
And sagely spell of ancient lore. 
Till I can rightly guess of all 
That Plato could to memory call, 
And scan the formless views of things 
Or with old Egypt's fettered kings, 
Arrange the mystic trains that shine 
In night's high philosophic mine ; 
And to thy name shall e'er belong 
The honors of undying song. 



ODE TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE. 

Oh, thou who in my early youth, 
When fancy wore the garb of truth, 
Wert wont to win my infant feet, 
To some retired, deep fabled seat, 
Where by the brooklet's secret tide, 
The midnight ghost was known to glide; 
Or lay me in some lonely glade, 
In native Sherwood's forest shade, 
Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold, 
Was wont his sylvan courts to hold ; 
And there as musing deep I lay, 
Would steal my little soul away, 
And all thy pictures represent, 
Of siege and solemn tournament ; 
Or bear me to the magic scene, 
Where clad in greaves and gaberdine, 
The warrior knight of chivalry, 
Made many a fierce enchanter flee ; 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 33 1 

And bore the high born dame away, 

Long held the fell magician's prey. 

Or oft would tell the shuddering tale 

Of murders, and of goblins pale, 

Haunting the guilty baron's side 

(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed), 

Which o'er the vaulted corridore 

On stormy nights was heard to roar, 

By old domestic, wakened wide 

By the angry winds that chide. 

Or else the mystic tale would tell, 

Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell. 



THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN. 
1. 

Oh, yonder is the well-known spot, 

My dear, my long-lost native home ! 
Oh ! welcome is yon little cot, 

Where I shall rest, no more to roam ! 
Oh ! I have travelled far and wide, 

O'er many a distant foreign land ; 
Each place, each province I have tried, 

And sung and danced my saraband. 
But all their charms could not prevail, 
To steal my heart from yonder vale. 

11. 

Of distant climes the false report 
It lured me from my native land ; 

It bade me rove — my sole support 
My cymbals and my saraband. 

The woody dell, the hanging rock, 
The chamois skipping o'er the heights ; 



33 2 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

The plain adorned with many a flock, 
And, oh! a thousand more delights, 
That grace yon dear beloved retreat, 
Have backward won my weary feet. 

ill. 

Now safe returned, with wandering tired, 

No more my little home I'll leave ; 
And many a tale of what I've seen, 

Shall while away the winter's eve. 
Oh ! I have wandered far and wide, 

O'er many a distant foreign land ; 
Each place, each province I have tried, 

And sung and danced my saraband ; 
But all their charms could not prevail, 
To steal my heart from yonder vale. 



LINES 

Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in Mr. Capel LoJFt's 
beautiful and interesting preface to Nathaniel Bloomjield's poems just 
published.— " It has a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the im- 
pression of its melancholy close. I could have wished, as I have said 
in a short note, the conclusion had heen otherwise. The sours of liie 
lesi offend my taste than its sweets delight it. 

Go to the raging sea, and say, " Be still," 
Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will ; 
Preach to the storm, and reason with despair, 
But tell not Misery's son that life is fair ! 

Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast rolled, 
And every year with new delight hast told, 
Thou, who recumbent on the lacquered barge, 
Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant marge, 
Thou mayst extol life's calm, untroubled sea, 
The storms of misery never burst on thee ! 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 333 

Go to the mat, where squalid want reclines, 
Go to the shade obscure, where Merit pines ; 
Abide with him whom penury's charms control, 
And bind the rising yearnings of his soul, 
Survey his sleepless couch, and standing there 
Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair ! 

Press thou the lonely pillow of his head, 
And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled : 
Mark his dewed temples, and his half-shut eye, 
His trembling nostrils, and his deep-drawn sigh, 
His mutt'ring mouth, contorted with despair, 
And ask if Genius could inhabit there. 

Oh yes ! that sunken eye with fire once gleamed, 
And rays of light from its full circlet streamed ; 
But now Neglect has stung him to the core, 
And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more. 

Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round, 
And added Grief compels him to the ground. 
Lo ! o'er his manly form, decayed, and wan, 
The shades of death with gradual steps steal on ; 
And the pale mother pining to decay, 
Weeps for her boy, her wretched life away. 

Go, child of Fortune ! to his early grave, 

Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave ; 

Behold the heart- wrung parent lay her head 

On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. 

Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there, 

And tell us then that life is wondrous fair ! 

Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretched forth, 

T' encourage genius, and to foster worth ; 

On thee, th' unhappy's firm, unfailing friend, 

'Tis just that every blessing should descend ! 

'Tis just that life to thee should only show, 

Her fairer side but little mixed with woe. 



334 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



WRITTEN IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

Sad solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils, 

Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind ; 

Communing lonely with his sinking soul, 

And musing on the dubious glooms that lie 

In dim obscurity before him, — thee, 

Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call 

At this still midnight hour, this awful season, 

When on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, 

I turn me wearisome ; while all around, 

All, all save me, sink in forgetfulness ; 

I only wake to watch the sickly taper 

Which lights me to my tomb. — Yes, 'tis the hand 

Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals, 

Slow sapping the warm current of existence. 

My moments now are few — The sand of life 

Ebbs fastly to its finish. — Yet a little, 

And the last fleeting particle will fall 

Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. 

Come then, sad thought, and \et us meditate, 

While meditate we may. — We have now 

But a small portion of what men call time 

To hold communion ; for even now the knife, 

The separating knife, I feel divide 

The tender bond that binds my soul to earth. 

Yes, I must die— I feel that I must die ; 

And though to me has life been dark and dreary, 

Though hope for me has smiled but to deceive, 

And disappointment still pursued her blandishments 

Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me 

As I contemplate the dim gulf of death, 

The shuddering void, the awful blank — futurity. 

Aye, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme 

Of earthly happiness, — romantic schemes, 

And fraught with loveliness ; and it is hard 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 335 



To feel the hand of death arrest one's steps, 

Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes, 

And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades, 

Lost in the gaping. gulf of black oblivion. 

Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry ? 

Oh ! none ; — another busy brood of beings 

Will shoot up in the interim, and none 

Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink, 

As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets 

Of busy London ; — Some short bustle's caused, 

A few inquiries, and the crowds close in, 

And all's forgotten. — -On my grassy grave 

The men of future times will careless tread, 

And read my name upon the sculptured stone : 

Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears, 

Recall my vanished memory. — I did hope 

For better things I — I hoped I should not leave 

The earth without a vestige ; — Fate decrees 

It shall be otherwise, and I submit. 

Henceforth, oh world, no more of thy desires ! 

No more of hope ! the wanton vagrant Hope ! 

I abjure all.— Now other cares engross me, 

And my tired soul with emulative haste, 

Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for Heaven. 



PASTORAL SONG. 

Come, Anna ! come, the morning dawns, 

Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies ; 
Come, let us seek the dewy lawns, 
And watch the early lark arise ; 
While nature clad in vesture gay, 
Hails the loved return of day. 

Our flocks that nip the scanty blade 
Upon the moor, shall seek the vale ; 



336 POEMS OF HENR Y KIRKE WHITE. 

And then, secure beneath the shade, 
We'll listen to the throstle's tale j 
Arid watch the silver clouds above, 
As o'er the azure vault they rove. 

Come, Anna ! come, and bring thy lute, 
That with its tones, so softly sweet, 

In cadence with my mellow flute, 
We may beguile the noon-tide heat ; 

While near the mellow bee shall join, 
To raise a harmony divine. 

And then at eve, when silence reigns, 

Except when heard the beetle's hum ; 
We'll leave the sober-tinted plains, 

To these sweet heights again we'll come ; 
And thou to thy soft lute shalt play 
A solemn vesper to departing day. 



ODE TO MIDNIGHT. 

Season of general rest, whose solemn still 
Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill, 

But speaks to philosophic souls delight : 
Thee do I hail, as at my .casement high, 
My candle waning melancholy by, 

I sit and taste the holy calm of night. 

Yon pensive orb that through the ether sails, 
And gilds the misty shadows of the vales, 

Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame ; 
To her, while all around in sleep recline, 
Wakeful I raise my orisons divine, 

And sing the gentle honors of her name ; 

While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends, 
To lift my soul her fairy visions sends, 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 337 

And pours upon my ear her thrilling song ; 
And Superstition's gentle terrors come, 
See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom ! 

See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng I 

Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, 
My flageolet — and as I pensive play, 

The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene : 
The traveller late journeying o'er the moors, 
Hears them aghast, — (while still the dull owl pours 

Her hollow screams each dreary pause between). 

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light, 
Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night, 

Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep ; 
And 'mid the dreary solitude serene, 
Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene, 

And raise my mournful eye to Heaven and weep. 



4 



ODE TO THOUGHT. 

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 
I. 

Hence away, vindictive Thought ! 

Thy pictures are of pain ; 
The visions through thy dark eye caught, 
They with no gentle charms are fraught, 
So prithee back again. 
I would not weep, 
I wish to sleep, 
Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep! 

11. 

Why dost o'er bed and couch recline ? 
Is this thy new delight ? 
22 



3Z& POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



Pale visitant, it is not thine 
To keep thy sentry through the mine, 
The dark vault of the night : 
'Tis thine to die, 
While o'er the eye, 
The dews of slumber press, and wakii-g sorrows fly. 

in. 

Go thou and bide with him who guides 

His bark through lonely seas ; 
And as, reclining on his helm, 
Sadly he marks the starry realm, 
To him thou mayst bring ease ; 
But thou to me 
Art misery, 
So prithee, prithee plume thy wings and from my pillow 
• flee. 

IV. 

And Memory, pray what art thou ? 

Art thou of pleasure born ? 
Does bliss untainted from thee flow ? 
The rose that gems thy pensive brow, 
Is it without a thorn ? 
With all thy smiles, 
And witching wiles, 
Yet not unf requent bitterness thy mournful sway defiles. 

v. 

The drowsy night-watch has forgot 

To call the solemn hour ; 
LulPd by the winds he slumbers deep, 
While I in vain, capricious sleep, 
Invoke thy tardy power ; 
And restless lie, 
With unclosed eye, 
And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 339 



GENIUS, 

AN ODE. 
I. 1. 

Many there be who, through the vale of life, 

With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go, 
While jarring discord's inharmonious strife 

Awakes them not to woe. 
By them unheeded, carking care, 
Green-eyed grief, and dull despair ; 
Smoothly they pursue their wa^ , 

With even tenor, and with equal breath ; 
Alike through cloudy, and through sunny day, 

Then sink in peace to death. 

11. 1. 

But ah ! a few there be whom griefs devour, 

And weeping woe, and disappointment keen, 
Repining penury, and sorrow sour, 

And self-consuming spleen. 
And these are Genius' favorites : these 
Know the thought- throned mind to please, 
And from her fleshy seat to draw 

To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, 
Disdaining all but 'wildering rapture's law, 

The captivated soul. 

in. 1. 

Genius, from thy starry throne, 

High above the burning zone, 

In radiant robe of light arrayed, 

Oh hear the plaint by thy sad favorite made/ 

His melancholy moan. 
He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, 



340 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden days, 
Pangs that his sensibility uprouse 

To curse his being, and his thirst for praise. 
Thou gavest to him, with treble force to feel, 

The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's scorn, 
And what o'er all does in his soul preside 

Predominant, and tempers him to steel, 
His high indignant pride. 

I. 2. 

Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life, 

That Genius visits not your lowly shed ; 
For ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife, 

Distract his hapless head ! 
For him awaits no balmy sleep, 
He wakes all night, and wakes to weep ; 
Or, by his lonely lamp he sits, 

At solemn midnight, when the peasant sleeps, 
In feverish study, and in moody fits 

His mournful vigils keeps. 

II. 2. 

And. oh ! for what consumes his watchful oil ? 

For what does thus he waste life's fleeting breath ? 
'Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil, 
'Tis for untimely death. 
Lo ! where, dejected, pale, he lies, 
Despair depicted in his eyes, 
He feels the vital flame decrease, 

He sees the grave, wide yawning for its prey, 
Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace, 
And cheer the expiring ray. 

in. 2. 

By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame. 
By gentle Otway's magic name, 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 34 l 

By him, the youth, who smiled at death, 
And rashly dared to stop his vital breath, 

Will I thy pangs proclaim ; 
For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, 
Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, 

And far resounding fame. 
What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, 
And to thy posthumous merit bend them low ; 
Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe, 
And thou, at thy flashed car, dost nations draw, 
Yet ah ! unseen behind thee fly 

Corroding anguish, soul-subduing pain, 
And discontent that clouds the fairest sky : 
A melancholy train. 

Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await, 

Mocking thy derided state ; 

Thee, chill Adversity will still attend, 

Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend, 
And leaves thee all forlorn ; 
While leaden Ignorance rears her head and laughs, 

And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides, 
And while the cup of affluence he quaffs 

With bee-eyed wisdom, Genius derides, 
Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave, 
To gain the meed of praise, when he is mouldering in 
his grave. 



FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE MOON. 

I. 

Mild orb who floatest through the realm of night, 

A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild ; 
Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light, 

Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts beguiled. 
Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat, 
Nocturnal study's still retreat, 



342 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



It casts a mournful melancholy gleam, 
And through my lofty casement weaves, • 
Dim through the vine's encircling leaves, 
An intermingled beam. 

II. 

These feverish dews that on my temples hang, 

This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame ; 
These the dread signs of many a secret pang, 

These are the meed of him who pants for fame ! 
Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my soul : 

Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high ; 
My lamp expires ; — beneath thy mild control, 

These restless dreams are ever wont to fly. 

Come, kindred mourner, in my breast, 
Soothe these discordant tones to rest, 

And breathe the soul of peace ; 
Mild visitor, I feel thee here, 
It is not pain that brings this tear 

For thou hast bid it cease, 
Oh ! many a year has passed away, 
Since I beneath thy fairy ray, 

Attuned my infant reed ; 
When wilt thou, Time, those days restore, 
Those happy moments now no more, 
***** 

When on the lake's damp marge I lay, 

And marked the northern meteor's dance ; 
Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there, 
To inspirate my trance. 

Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign 
Your magic sweets on me to shed, 
In vain your powers are now essayed 
To chase superior pain. 

And art thou fled, thou welcome orb? 
So swiftly pleasure flies \ 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 343 

So to mankind, in darkness lost, 

The beam of ardor dies, 
Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done, 
And now, encurtained in the main, 

Thou sinkest into rest ; 
But I, in vain, on thorny bed, 
Shall woo the god of soft repose — 



FRAGMENT. 

Oh ! thou most fatal of Pandora's train, 

Consumption ! silent cheater of the eye ; 
Thou comest not robed in agonizing pain, 

Nor mark'st thy course with Death's delusive dye, 
But silent and unnoticed thou dostrlie: 

O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost diffuse, 
And, while thou givest new lustre to the eye, 

While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy hue3, 
E'en then life's little rest thy cruel power subdues. 
Oft I've beheld thee in the glow of youth, 

Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there bloomed ; 
And dropt a tear, for then thy cankering tooth 

I knew would never stay, till, all consumed, 
In the cold vault of death he were entombed. 

But oh ! what sorrow did I feel, as, swift, 

Insidious ravager, I saw thee fly 
Through fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow, 

Preparing swift her passage to the sky. 
Though still intelligence beamed in the glance, 

The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye ; 
Yet soon did languid listlessness advance, 
And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant trance. 

Even when her end was swiftly drawing near, 
And dissolution hovered o'er her head ; 



344 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Even then so beauteotis did her form appear, 
That none who saw her but admiring said, 
Sure so much beauty never could be dead. 

Yet the dark lash of her expressive eye, 

Bent lowly down upon the languid 

* * * * 



SONNETS. 



TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. 

Lofft, unto thee, one tributary song, 

The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring ; 

She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng, 
And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring. 

Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth, 
Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, 

Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth, 
And to thy bosom snatched misfortune's child : 

Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal, 
Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire, 
Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the lyre, 

And show thy labors for the public weal, 
Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme, 
But ah ! she shrinks abashed before the arduous theme 



TO THE MOON. 

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER. 



Sublime, emerging from the misty verge 
Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail, 
As sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale 

Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. 



■■MM •• - i 



1 — in 1 inn £ - 1 1 — rrrn 1 ' "* mmn— ■ mhim h— i— * m 

POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 345 

Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight, 

And falling leaves bestrew the wanderer's way, 

Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night, 
With double joy my homage do I pay. 
"When clouds disguise the glories of the day, 

And stern November sheds her boisterous blight, 
How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray 

Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height, 
And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring 
The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring. 



WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OP A FRIEND. 

Fast from the West the fading day-streaks fly, 

And ebon night assumes her solemn sway ; 
Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie, 

And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. 
Oh ! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd 

The maid of musings by yon moaning wave ; 
And hailed the moon's mild beam, which now renewed 

Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave ! 
The busy world pursues its boisterous way, 

The noise of revelry still echoes round ; 
Yet I am sad while all beside is gay 3 

Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. 
Oh ! that like thee I might bid sorrow cease, 
And 'neath the greensward sleep — the sleep of peace. 



TO MISFORTUNE. 

Misfortune, I am young, — my chin is bare, 

And I have wondered much when men have told 

How youth was free from sorrow and from care, 

That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave the old. 

Sure dost not like me ! — Shrivelled hag of hate, 
My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long ; 



mm — mm 



t~ 



34& POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

I am not either, Beldame, over strong ; 
Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, 
For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate. 
Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate ; 
I am yet young, and do not like thy face ; 
And lest thou shouldst resume the wild-goose chase, 
I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage, 
Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age. 



As thus oppressed with many a heavy care 
(Though young yet sorrowful), I turn my feet 
To the dark woodland, — longing much to greet 
The form of peace, if chance she sojourn there ; 
Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair, 

Fills my sad breast ; — and tired with this vain coil, 
I shrink dismayed before life's upland toil. 
And as amid the leaves the evening air 
Whispers still melody, — I think ere long, 

When I no more can hear, these woods will speak ; 
And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, 
And mournful fantasies upon me throng, 
And I d6 ponder with most strange delight, 
On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night. 



TO APRIL. 



Emblem of life ! see changeful April sail 
In varying vest along the shadowy skies, 
Now, bidding Summer's softest zephyrs rise, 

Anon, recalling Winter's stormy gale, 

And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail ; 
Then, smiling through the tear that dims her eyes, 
While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes, 

Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 347 

So, to us sojourners in life's low vale, 
The smiles of Fortune flatter to deceive, 
While still the Fates the web of Misery weave. 
So Hope exultant spreads her aery sail, 
And from the present gloom the soul conveys 
To distant summers, and far happier days. 



Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies, 
At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear, 
Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear, 

As by the wood-spring stretched supine he lies ; 

When he who now invokes you low is laid, 

His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed ; 

Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head, 
And chant a dirge to his reposing shade ! 

For he was wont to love your madrigals ; 
And often by the haunted stream that laves 
The dark sequestered woodland's inmost caves, 

Would sit and listen to the dying falls, 

Till the full tear would quiver in his eye, 

And his big heart would heave with mournful ecstasy. 



TO A TAPER. 

Tis midnight. — On the globe dead slumber sits, 

And all is silence — in the hour of sleep ; 
Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits, 

In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep. 
I wake alone to listen and to weep, 

To watch, my taper, thy pale beacon burn ; 
And, as still memory does her vigils keep, 

To think of days that never can return. 
By thy pale ray I raise my languid head, 

My eye surveys the solitary gloom ; 



348 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

And the sad meaning tear, unmixt with dread, 

Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb. 
Like thee I wane ; — like thine my life's last ray 
Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away. 



Yes, 'twill be over soon. — This sickly dream 

Of life will vanish from my feverish brain ; 
And death my wearied spirit will redeem 

From this wild region of unvaried pain. 
Yon brook will glide as softly as before, — 

Yon landscape smile, — yon golden harvest grow,- 
Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar, 

When Henry's name is heard no more below. 
I sigh when all my youthful friends caress, 

They laugh in health, and future evils brave ; 
Them shall a wife and smiling children bless, 

While I am mouldering in my silent grave. 
God of the just, — Thou gavest the bitter cup ; 
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up. 



TO CONSUMPTION. 

Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head, 
Consumption, lay thine hand ! — let me decay, 
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away, 

And softly go to slumber with the dead. 

And if 'tis true what holy men have said, 
That strains angelic oft foretell the day 
Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey, 

let the aerial music round my bed, 

Dissolving sad in dying symphony, 

Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear ; 

That I may bid my weeping friends good-by, 
Ere I depart upon my journey drear : 

And smiling faintly on the painful past, 

Compose my decent head, and breathe my last. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 349 



TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX. 

Thy judgments, Lord, are just ; thou lovest to wear 

The face of pity, and of love divine ; 
But mine is guilt — thou must not, canst not, spare, 

While Heaven is true, and equity is thine. 
Yes, oh, my God ! — such crimes as mine, so dread, 

Leave but the choice of punishment to thee ; 
Thy interest calls for judgment on my head, 

And even thy mercy dares not plead for me ! 
Thy will be done — since 'tis thy glory's due, 

Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow ; 
Smite — it is time — though endless death ensue, 

I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. 
But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, 
That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning 
blood ? 



35° POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



\j. 



POEMS OF A LATER DATE. 



TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS, 

Who when the author reasoixed with him calmly asked, " If he did not 

feel for him?" 



" Do I not feel ! " The doubt is keen as steel. 
Yea, I do feel — most exquisitely feel ; 
My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye 
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh : 
Deep buried there I close the rankling dart, 
And smile the most when heaviest is my heart. 
On this I act — whatever pangs surround, 
' Tis magnanimity to hide the wound. 
When all was new, and life was in its spring, 

I lived an unloved solitary thing ; 
Even then I learnt to bury deep from day 
The piercing cares that wore my youth away. 
Even then I learnt for others' cares to feel, 
Even then I wept I had not power to heal ; 
Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom, 
1 heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd thewretch- 

ed's doom. 
Who were my friends in youth ? — the midnight fire — 
The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir ; 
To these I 'plained, or turned from outer sight, 
To bless my lonely taper's friendly light ; 
I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn, 
For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn ; 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 35 T 

The sacred source of woe I never ope, 
My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope. 
But that I do feel, time, my friend, will show, 
Though the cold crowd the secret never know ; 
With them I laugh — yet when no eye can see, 
I weep for nature, and I weep for thee. 

Yes, thou didst wrong me, ; I fondly thought, 

In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought ; 
I fondly thought that thou couldst pierce the guise, 
And read the truth that in ray bosom lies ; 
I fondly thought ere Time's last days were gone, 
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one ! 
Yes — and they yet will mingle. Days and years 
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears : 
We then shall feel that friendship has a power, 
To soothe affliction in her darkest hour \ 
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand, 
And wait the passport to a better land. 

Thine, 

H. K. White. 

Half -past 11 o'clock at night. 



CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1804. 

Yet once more, and once more, awake, my harp, 
From silence and neglect — one lofty strain ; 
Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven, 
And speaking mysteries, more than words can tell, 
I ask of thee ; for I, with hymnings high, 
Would join the dirge of the departing year. 

Yet with no wintry garland from the woods, 
Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sere, 
Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December ! now ; 
Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song, - 
And fearful joy, to celebrate the day 
Of the Redeemer. — Near two thousand suns 



3S 2 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse 
Of generations, since the day-spring first 
Beamed from on high ! — Now to the mighty mass 
Of that increasing aggregate, we add 
One unit more. Space, in comparison 
How small, yet marked with how much misery ; 
Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence, 
Over the nations hanging her dread scourge; 
The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness, 
Weeping their sufferance ; and the arm of wrong 
Forcing the scanty portion from the weak, 
And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears. 

So has the year been character'd w r ith woe 

In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes; 

Yet 'twas not thus He taught — not thus He lived, 

Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer 

And much thanksgiving. — He, a man of woes, 

Went on the way appointed, — path, though rude, 

Yet borne with patience still : — He came to cheer 

The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick, 

And on the wandering and benighted mind 

To pour the light of truth. — O task divine ! 

O more than angel teacher ! He had words 

To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds ; 

And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas, 

Wrapt in thick darkness and the howling storm, 

He, pointing to the star of peace on high, 

Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile 

At the surrounding wreck. 

When with deep agony his heart was rack'd, 

Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek, 

For them He wept, for them to Heaven He prayed. 

His persecutors — " Father, pardon them, 

They know not what they do." 

Angels of Heaven, 
Ye who beheld him fainting on the cross, 
And did him homage, say, may mortal join 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 353 

The hallelujahs of the risen God ? 

Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard 

Amid the seraphim in light divine ? 

Yes, he will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign, 

For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith, 

Low though it be and humble. — Lord of life, 

The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now 

Fills my uprising soul. — I mount, I fly 

Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs ; 

The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes, 

And care, and pain, and sorrow, are no more. 



NELSONI MORS. 

Yet once again, my harp, yet once again, 

One ditty more, and on the mountain ash 

I will again suspend thee. I have felt 

The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last 

At even-tide, when all the winds were hush'd, 

I woke to thee, the melancholy song. 

Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe, 

I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks 

Of frolic fancy to the line of truth ; 

Not unrepining, for my fro ward heart 

Still turns to thee, mine harp, and to the flow 

Of spring-gales past — the woods and storied haunts 

Of my not songless boyhood. — Yet once more, 

Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, 

My long neglected harp. — He must not sink ; 

The good, the brave — he must not, shall not sink 

Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour 
No precious dews of Aganippe's well, 



354 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



Or Castaly, — though from the morning cloud 

I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse : 

Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows, 

Of simple flowers, such as the hedgerows scent 

Of Britain, my loved country ; and with tears 

Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe 

Thy honor'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm 

And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd 

Fast from thy honest heart.— Thou Pity too, 

If ever I have loved, with faltering step, 

To follow thee in the cold and starless night, 

To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff ; 

And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud 

Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd 

Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds, 

Thy dying soul's viaticum ; if oft 

Amid the carnage of the field I've sate 

With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung 

To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul. 

With mercy and forgiveness ; visitant 

Of Heaven, sit thou upon my harp, 

And give it feeling, which were else too cold 

For argument so great, for theme so high. 

How dimly on that morn the sun arose, 

'Kerchieft in mists, and tearful, when 

* * * * 



HYMN. 



In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure the splendors 

of the Deity. 

I. 

Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake, 

Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake m } 

We sing the Saviour of our race, 

The Lamb, our shield, and hiding place. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 355 

II. 

When God's right arm was bared for war, 
And thunders clothe his cloudy car, 
Where, where, oh where, shall man retire, 
To escape the horrors of his ire ? 

III. 

'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly, 
While the dread tempest passes by : 
God sees his Well-beloved's face, 
And spares us in our hiding place. 

I. 

Thus while we dwell in this low scene, 
The Lamb is our unfailing screen ; 
To him, though guilty, still we run, 
And God still spares us for his Son. 

v. 

While yet we sojourn here below, 
Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow ; 
Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race, 
We deeply need a hiding place. 

VI. 

Yet, courage ! — days and years will glide, 
And we shall lay these clods aside ; 
Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood, 
And washed in Jesus' cleansing blood. 

VII. 

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed, 
We through the Lamb shall be decreed ; 
Shall meet the Father face to face, 
And need no more a hiding place. 

The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporaneously, hy the 
author, one summer evening, when he was with a few friends on the 
Tt,reuand singing it, as he was used to do on such occasions. 



35 6 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP. 

I. 

O Lord, another day has flown, 

And we, a lonely band, 
Are met once more before thy throne, 

To bless thy fostering hand. 

II. 
And wilt thou bend a listening ear, 

To praises low as ours ? 
Thou wilt ! for thou dost love to hear 

The song which meekness pours. 

ill. 

And Jesus thou thy smiles will deign, 

As we before thee pray : 
For thou didst bless the infant train, 

And we are less than they. 

IV. 

O let thy grace perform its part, 

And let contention cease ; 
And shed abroad in every heart 

Thine everlasting peace ! 

v. 

Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine, 

A flock by Jesus led : 
The Sun of Holiness shall shine 

In glory on our head. 

VI. 

And thou wilt turn our wandering feet, 
And thou wilt bless our way ; 

'Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet 
The dawn of lasting day. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 357 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 

I. 
When marshall'd on the mighty plain, 

The glittering host best ud the sky ; 
One star alone, of all the train, 

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 



Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 
From every host, from every gem ; 

But one alone the Saviour speaks, 
It is the star of Bethlehem. 

in. 
Once on the raging sea I rode, 

The storm was loud, — the night was dark, 
The ocean yawn'd, — and rudely blow'd 

The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. 

IV. 

Deep horror then my vitals froze, 

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem ; 

When suddenly a star arose, 

It was the star of Bethlehem. 

v. 

It was my guide, my light, my all, 

It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 

And through the storm and dangers' thrall, 
It led me to the port of peace. 

VI. 

Now safely moored — my perils o'er, 
I'll sing, first in night's diadem, 

Forever and for evermore, 

The star ! — the star of Bethlehem I 



358 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE 



A HYMN. 

O Lord, my God, in mercy turn, 
In mercy hear a sinner mourn ! 
To thee I call, to thee I cry, 

leave me, leave me not to die ! 

1 strove against thee, Lord, 1 know, 

I spurn'd thy grace, I mock thy law ; 
The hour is past — the day's gone by 
And I am left alone to die. 

O pleasures past, what are ye now 
But thorns about my bleeding brow ? 
Spectres that hover round my brain, 
And aggravate and mock my pain. 

For pleasure I have given my soul ; 
Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll 1 
Now, Vengeance, smile — and with a blow, 
Lay the rebellious ingrate low. 

Yet Jesus, Jesus ! there I'll cling, 
I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing ; 
I'll clasp the cross, and holding there, 
Even me, oh bliss ! — his wrath may spare. 



iELODY. 

Inserted in a collection of selected and original Songs, 
published by the Rev. J. Plumptre, of Clare Hall, 
Cambridge. 



Yes, once more that dying strain, 
Anna, touch thy lute for me , 



POEMS OF HENR Y KIRKE WHITE. 359 

Sweet, when pity's tones complain, 
Doubly sweet is melody. 

11. 

While the Virtues thus inweave 

Mildly soft the thrilling song, 
Winter's long' and lonesome eve, 

Glides unfelt, unseen along. 

in. 

Thus when life hath stolen away, 

And the wintry night is near ; 
Thus shall Virtue's friendly ray, 

Age's closing evening cheer. 



SONG. 

BY WALLER. 

A lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to the author, and when he 
returned them to her, she discovered an additional stanza written by 
him at the bottom of the song here copied. 

Go, lovely rose 1 
Tell her that wastes her time and me, 

That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young, 
And shun's to have her graces spied ; 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts, where no men abide, 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired ; 
Bid her come forth, 



360 POEMS OF HENRY K1RKE WHITE. 

Suffer herself to be desired, 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee ; 
How small a part of time they share, 
That are so wondrous, sweet, and fair ; 



[Yet, though thou fade, 
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ; 

And teach the maid, 
That goodness Time's rude hand defies, 
That virtue lives when beauty dies.] 

H. K. White. 



" I AM PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD.' 

1. 

When twilight steals along the ground, 
And all the bells are tinging round, 

One, two, three, four, and five ; 
I at my study window sit, 
And wrapt in many a musing fit, 

To bliss am all alive. 

11. 

But though impressions calm and sweet, 
Thrill round my heart a holy heat, 

And I am inly glad ; 
The tear-drop stands in either eye, 
And yet I cannot tell thee why, 

I am pleased, and yet I'm sad. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 361 



III. 

The silvery rack that flies away, 
Like mortal life or pleasure's ray, 

Does that disturb my breast ? 
Nay what have I, a studious man, 
To do with life's unstable plan, 

Or pleasure's fading vest ? 

IV. 

Is it that here I must not stop, 
But o'er yon blue hills woody top, 

Must bend my lonely way ? 
Now, surely no, for give but me 
My own fire-side, and I shall be 

At home where'er I stray. 

v. 

Then is it that yon steeple there, 
With music sweet shall fill the air, 

When thou no more canst hear ? 
Oh no ! oh no ! for then forgiven, 
I shall be with my God in Heaven, 

Released from every fear. 

VI. 

Then whence it is I cannot tell, 
But there is some mysterious spell 

That holds me when I'm glad \ 
And so the tear-drop fills my eye, 
When yet in truth I know not why, 

Or wherefore I am sad. 



SOLITUDE. 



It is not that my lot is low, 
That bids this silent tear to flow ; 



362 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



It is not grief that bids me moan, 
It is that I am all alone. 

In woods and glens I love to roam, 
Wnen the tired hedger hies him home ; 
Or by the woodland pool to rest, 
When pale the star looks on its breast 

Yet when the silent evening sighs, 
With hallo w'd airs and symphonies, 
My spirit takes another tone, 
And sighs that it is all alone. 

The autumn leaf is sere and dead, 
It floats upon the water's bed ; 
I would not be a leaf, to die 
Without recording sorrow's sigh ! 

The woods and winds, with sudden wail, 
Tell all the same unvaried tale ; 
I've none to smile when I am free, 
And when I sigh, to sigh with me. 

Yet in my dreams a form I view, 
That thinks on me and loves me too ; 
I start, and when the vision's flown, 
I weep that I am all alone. 



IF fa,:* f rom me the Fates remove 
Domestic peace, connubial love ; 
The pratling ring, the social cheer, 
Affection's voice, affection's tear ; 
Ye sterner powers that bind the heart, 
To me your iron aid impart ! 

teach me, when the nights are chill, 
And my fire-side is lone and still ; 
When to the blaze that crackles near, 

1 turn a tired and pensive ear, 



POEMS OF HENRY K1RKE WHITE. 303 

And nature conquering bids me sigh, 
For love's soft accents whispering nigh ; 

teach me on that heavenly road, 
That leads to Truth's occult abode, 
To wrap my soul in dreams sublime, 
Till earth and care no more be mine. 
Let blest philosophy impart, 

Her soothing measures to my heart ; 
And while, with Plato's ravished ears, 

1 list the music of the spheres ; 
Or on the mystic symbols pore, 
That hide the Chald's sublimer lore ; 
I shall not brood on summers gone, 
Nor think that I am all alone. 



FAsrinr upon thy breast I may not lie ! 

Fanny ! thou dost not hear me when I speak ! 
Where art thou, love ? — Around I turn my eye, 

And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek. 
"Was it a dream ? or did my love behold 

Indeed my lonely couch ? — Methought the breath 
Fann'd not her bloodless lip ; her eye was cold 

And hollow, and the livery of death 
Invested her pale forehead. — Sainted maid, 

My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave, 

Through the long wintry night, when wind and wave 
Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. 
Yet hush ! my fond heart, hush ! there is a shore 

Of better promise ; and I know at last, 

When the long sabbath of the tomb is past, 
We two shall meet in Christ — to part no more. 



3&4 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



VERSES. 

Thou base repiner at another's joy, 

Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own • 
Oh far away from generous Britons fly, 
And find in meaner climes a fitter throne 1 
Away, away, it shall not be, 

That thou shalt dare defile our plains ; 
The truly generous heart disdains 
Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he 
Joys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity. 

Triumphant monster ! though thy schemes succeed,— 

Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night, 
Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed, 

Thy happy victim will emerge to light ; 
When o'er his head in silence that reposes, 

Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear 
Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses, 

Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe ; 
Then will thy baseness stand confess'd, and all 

Will curse the ungenerous fate that bade a Poet fall. 



Yet ah ! thy sorrows are too keen, too sure ! 

Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey ? 
Alas ! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor, 

Who only boast what thou wouldst take away. 
See the lone bard at midnight study sitting ; 

O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp ; 
While o'er fond fancy's pale perspective flitting, 

Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. 
Yet, say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd ? 

Does jocund health in thought's still mansion live ? 
Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest, 

That short quick sigh — their sad responses give I . 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 365 

And canst thou rob a poet of his song ; 

Snatch from the bard his trivial nieed of praise ? 
Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long \ 

Then leave, leave him to enjoy his lays 
While yet he lives, — for, to his merits just, 

Though future ages join his fame to raise, 
Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust ? 



EPIGRAM ON ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 

Bloomfield, thy happy omen'd name 
Ensures contiruance to thy fame : 
Both sense and truth this verdict give, 
Whilst fields shall bloom thy name shall live ! 



366 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



FRAGMENTS. 



These fragments are the author's latest compositions ; and were, for the 
most part, written upon the back of his mathematical papers, during 
the few moments of the last year of his life, in which he suffered 
himself to follow the impulse of his genius. 



L 

" Saw'st thou that light ? " exclaim'd the youth, and 

paused ; 
" Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the stream 
That skirts the woods, it for a moment played. 
Again, more light it gleam' d, — or does some sprite 
Delude mine eyes with shapes of wood and streams, 
And lamp far beaming through the thicket's gloom, 
As from some bosom'd cabin, where the voice 
Of revelry, or thrifty watchfulness, 
Keeps in th3 lights at this unwonted hour ? 
No sprite deludes mine eyes, — the beam now glows 
With steady lustre. — Can it be the moon, 
Who, hidden long by the invidious veil 
That blots the Heavens, now sets behind the woods ? "— 
" No moon to-night has looked upon the sea 
Of clouds beneath her," answered Rudiger. 
" She has been sleeping with Endymion." 



II. 

The pious man, 
In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms, 
Hide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 367 

Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields 
Of ether, where the day is never vailed 
With intervening vapors ; and looks down 
Serene upon the troublous sea, that hides 
The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face 
To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all ; 
But on whose billowy back, from man concealed 
The glaring sunbeam plays. 



III. 
Lo ! on the eastern summit, clad in gray, 
Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes ; 
And from his tower of mist, 
Night's watchman hurries down. 



IV. 

There was a little bird upon that pile ; 
It perched upon a ruined pinnacle, 
And made sweet melody. 

The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most clear, 
For other note none swelled the air but his. 
It seemed as if the little chorister, 
Sole tenant of the melancholy pile, 
Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind, 
Yet withal cheerful. — I have heard the note 
Echoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn, 
Much musing — 



V. 

O PALE art thou, my lamp, and faint 

Thy melancholy ray : 
When the still night's unclouded saint 

Is walking on her way. 



368 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Through my lattice leaf embowered, 
Fair she sheds her shadowy beam ; 
And o'er my silent sacred room, 
Casts a checkered twilight gloom ; 
1 throw aside the learned sheet, 
I cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet. 
Sad vestal why art thou so fair, 
Or why am I so frail ? 

Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon, 

And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards! 

Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak 
Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd ; 

So mournfully compos'd, o'er yonder cloud 

Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far 

From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave. 



VI. 

O give me music — for my soul doth faint ; 

I am sick of noise and care, and now mine ear 
Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint, 

That may the spirit from its cell unsphere. 

Hark how it falls ! and now it steals along, 

Like distant bells upon the lake at eve, 
When all is still ; and now it grows more strong, 

As when the choral train their dirges weave, 
Mellow and many-voiced ; where every close, 
O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows. 
Oh ! I am wrapt aloft. My spirit soars 

Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind. 
Lo ! angels lead me to the happy shores, 

And floating paeans fill the buoyant wind. 
Farewell ! base earth, farewell ! my soul is freed, 
Far from its clayey cell it springs, — 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 36} 

VII. 

Ah ! who can say, however fair his view, 
Through what sad scenes his path may lie ? 
Ah ! who can give to other's woes his sigh, 

Secure his own will never need it too ! 

Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue, 
Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful eye 
The illusive past and dark futurity ; 

Soon will they know — 



VIII. 



And must thou go, and must we part ! 

Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit ; 
The pang that rends in twain my heart, 

Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it ? 

Thy sex is fickle, — when away, 

Some happier youth may win thy — 



IX. 

SONNET. 



When I sit musing on the checkered past 

(A term much darkened with untimely woes), 
My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows 

The tear, though half disowned ;— and binding fast 

Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, 
I say to her she robbed me of my rest, 
When that was all my wealth. — 'Tis true my breast 

"Received from her this wearying lingering smart : 

Yet ah ! I cannot bid her form depart ; 

Though wronged, I love her — yet in anger love, 
For she was most unworthy. — Then I prove 

Vindictive joy j and on my stern front gleams, 

24 



37° POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Throned in dark clouds, inflexible * * * 
The native pride of my much injured heart* 



X. 

When high romance o'er every wood and stream 

Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire ; 
Spell-struck, and filled with many a wondering dream, 

First in the groves I woke the pensive lyre. 
All there was mystery then, the gust that woke 

The midnight echo was a spirit's dii y,e ; 
And unseen fairies would the moon invoke, 

To their light morriee by the restless surge. 
Now to my sobered thought with life's false smiles, 

Too much * * * 
The vagrant, Fancy, spreads no more her wiles, 

And dark forebodings now my bosom fill. 



XI. 

Hushed is the lyre — the hand that swept 
The low and pensive wires, 
Robbed of its cunning, from the task retires. 

Yes — it is still — the lyre is still ; 

The spirit which its slumbers broke, 

Hath passed away, — and that weak hand that woke 
Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. 
Yet I would press you to my lips once more, 

Ye wild, yet withering flowers of poesy ; 
Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour, 

Mixed with decaying odors ; for to me 
Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy, 

As in the wood-paths of my native — 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 37 1 



XII. 

Once more, and yet once more, 

I give unto my harp a dark- woven lay ; 
I heard the waters roar, 

I heard the flood of ages pass away. 
O thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell 

In thine eternal cell, 
Noting, gray chronicler ! the silent years ; 

I saw thee rise. — I saw the scroll complete, 

Thou spakest, and at thy feet, 
The universe gave way. 



FRAGMENT. 

Loud rage the winds without. — The wintry cloud 
O'ei the cold north star casts her fitting shroud ; 
And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale, 
Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale ; 
Where now shut out from every still retreat 
Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat, 
Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood, 
Retire, o'er all her pensive stores to brood ? 
Shivering and blue, the peasant eyes askance 
The drifted fleeces that around him dance ; 
And hurries on his half-averted form, 
Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm. 
Him soon shall greet his snow-topp'd [cot of thatch], 
Soon shall his 'numbed hand tremble on the latch ; 
Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame 
Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame. 
Round the light fire, while roars the north wind loud. 
What merry groups of vacant faces crowd ; 
These hail his coming — these his meal prepare, 
And boast in all that cot no lurking care. 



372 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

What, though the social circle be denied, 
Even Sadness brightens at her own fireside ; 
Loves, with fixed eye, to watch the fluttering blaze, 
While musing Memory dwells on former days ; 
Or Hope, bless' d spirit ! smiles — and, still forgiven, 
Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven. 
Then heap the fire — shut out the biting air, 
And from its station wheel the easy chair : 
Thus fenced and warm, in silence fit, 'tis sweet 
To hear without the bitter tempest beat, 
And, all alone, to sit, and muse, and sigh, 
The pensive tenant of obscurity. 



VERSES . 

When pride and envy, and the scorn 
Of wealth, my heart with gall imbued, 

I thought how pleasant were the morn 
Of silence in the solitude ; 

To hear the forest bee on wing ; 

Or by the stream, or woodland spring, 

To lie and muse alone — alone, 

While the tinkling waters moan, 

Or such wild sounds arise, as say, 

Man and noise are far away. 

Now, surely, thought I, there's enow 

To fill life's dusty way : 
And who will miss a poet's feet, 

Or wonder where he stray ? 
So in the woods and waste I'll go, 

And I will build an osier bower ; 
And sweetly there to me shall flow 

The meditative hour. 



~*f* 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 373 

And when the Autumn's withering hand 

Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land, 

I'll to the forest caverns hie : 

And in the dark and stormy nights 

I'll listen to the shrieking sprites, 

Who, in the wintry wolds and floods, 

Keep jubilee, and shred the woods ; 

Or, as it drifted soft and slow, 

Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow. 

•h sfc sfc tH£ "Si 



ON WHIT-MONDAY. 

Hark ! how the merry bells ring jocund round, 
And now they die upon the veering breeze ; 

Anon they thunder loud, 

Full on the musing ear. 

Wafted in varying cadence by the shore 
Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak 

A day of jubilee, — 

An ancient holyday. 

And lo ! the rural revels are begun, 
And gayly echoing to the laughing sky, 

On the smooth shaven green 

Resounds the voice of Mirth. 

Alas ! regardless of the tongue of Fate, 
That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they 

Who now are in their graves 

Kept up the Whitsun dance ; 

And that another hour, and they must fall 
Like those who went before, and sleep as still 

Beneath the silent sod, 

A cold and cheerless sleep. 



374 POEMS OF HENRY KIKKE WHITE. 

Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to scare 
The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign 

To smile upon us here, 

A transient visitor ? 

Mortals ! be gladsome while ye have the power, 
And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy ; 

In time the bell will toll 

That warns ye to your graves. 

I to the woodland solitude will bend 
My lonesome way — where Mirth's obstreperous 
shout 

Shall not intrude to break 

The meditative hour. 

There will I ponder on the state of man, 
Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate 

This day of jubilee 

To sad Reflection's shrine ; 

And I will cast my fond eye far beyond 
This world of care, to where the steeple loud 

Shall rock above the sod, 

Where I shall sleep in peace. 



ON THE DEATH OF DERMODY, THE *POET. 

Child of misfortune ! offspring of the Muse ! 
Mark like the meteor's gleam, his mad career ; 
With hollow cheeks and haggard eye, 
Behold, he shrieking passes by; 

I see, I see him near : 
That hollow scream, that deepening groan ; 
It rings upon mine ear. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 375 

Oh coine ye thoughtless, ye deluded youth, 
Who cla p the syren Pleasure to your breast ; 
Behold the wreck of Genius here ; 
And drop, oh drop the silent tear 

For Dermody at rest ; 
His fate is yours, then from your loins 
Tear quick the silken vest. 

Saw'st thou his dying bed ! Saw'st thou his eye, 
Once flashing fire, despair's dim tear distil ; 
How ghastly did it seem ; 
And then his dying scream ; 

Oh God! I hear it still : 
It sounds upon my fainting sense. 
It strikes with deathly chill. 

Say, didst thou mark the brilliant poet's death ; 
Saw'st thou an anxious father by his bed, 
Or pitying friends around him stand ? 
Or didst thou see a mother's hand 

Support his languid head ? 
Oh none of these — no friend o'er him 
The balm of pity shed. 

Now come around, ye flippant sons of wealth, 
Sarcastic smile on genius fallen low ; 
Now come around who pant for fame, 
And learn from hence, a poet's name 

Is purchased but by woe : 
And when ambition prompts to rise, 
Oh think of him below. 

For me, poor moralizer, I will run, 
Dejected, to some solitary state : 
The muse has set her seal on me, 
She set her seal on Dermody, 

It is the seal of fate : 
In some lone spot my bones may lie, 
Secure from human hate. 



37 6 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Yet ere I go I'll drop one silent tear, 
Where lies unwept the poet's fallen head : 
May peace her banners o'er him wave ; 
For me in my deserted grave 

No friend a tear shall shed : 
Yet may the lily and the rose 
Bloom on my grassy bed. 



THE WONDERFUL JUGGLER. 

A SONG. 

Come all ye true hearts, who, old England to save, 
Now shoulder the musket, or plough the rough wave, 
I will sing you a song of a wonderful fellow, 
Who has ruined Jack Pudding, and broke Punchinello. 
Derry down, down, high derry down. 

This juggler is little, and ugly, and black, 
But, like Atlas, he stalks with the world at his back ; 
'Tis certain, all fear of t'he devil he scorns ; 
Some say they are cousins ; we know he wears horns. 

Derry down. 

At hop, skip, and jump, who so famous as he ? 
He hopp'd o'er an army, he skipp'd o'er the sea ; 
And he jump'd from the desk of a village attorney 
To the throne of the Bourbons — a pretty long journey. 

Derry down. 

He tosses up kingdoms the same as a ball, 
And his cup is so fashion'd it catches them all ; 
The Pope and Grand Turk have been heard to declare 
His skill at the long bow has made them both stare. 

Derry down. 

He has shown off his tricks in France, Italy, Spain ; 
And Germany too knows his legerdemain ; 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. Z11 

So hearing John Bull has a taste for strange sights, 
He's coming to London to put us to rights. 

Derry down. 

To encourage his puppets to venture this trip, 
He has built them such boats as can conquer a ship ; 
"With a gun of good metal, that shoots out so far, 
It can silence the broadsides of three men of war. 

Derry down. 

This new Katterfelto, his show to complete, 

Means his boats should all sink as they pass by our 

fleet; 

Then, as under the ocean their course they steer right 

on, 
They can pepper their foes from the bed of old Triton. 

Derry down. 

If this project should fail, he has others in store ; 
Wooden horses, for instance, may bring them safe o'er; 
Or the genius of France (as the Moniteur tells) 
May order balloons, or provide diving* bells. 

Derry down. 

When Philip of Spain fitted out his Armada, 
Britain saw his designs, and could meet her invader ; 
But how to greet Bonny she never will know, 
If he comes in the style of a fis'h or a crow. 

Derry down. 

Now if our rude tars will so crowd up the seas, 

That his boats have not room to go down when they 

please, 
Can't he wait till the channel is quite frozen over, 
And a stout pair of skates will transport him to Dover. 

Derry down. 

How welcome he'll be, it were needless to say ; 
Neither he nor his puppets shall e'er go away ; 



37 8 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

I am sure at his heels we shall constantly stick, 
Till we know he has played off his very last trick. 

Derry down, down, high derry down. 



SONNET TO MY MOTHER. 

And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think 
That we, thy children, when old age shall shed 
Its blanching honors on thy weary head, 

Could from our breast of duties ever shrink ? 

Sooner the sun from his high sphere, should sink 
Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in th.at day, 
To pine in solitude thy life away, 

Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. 

Banish the thought ! — where'er our steps may roam, 
O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree, 
Still will fond memory point, our hearts to thee, 

And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home ; 
While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage, 
And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age. 



SONNET. 



Sweet to the gay of heart in Summer's smile, 

Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring ; 
But ah ! my soul far other scenes beguile, 

Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. 
Is it for me to strike the Idalian string — 

Raise the soft music of the warbling wire, 
While in my ears the howls of furies ring, 

And melancholy wastes the vital fire ? 
Away with thoughts like these. To some lone cave 

Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the 
wave, 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 379 

Direct my steps ; there, in the lonely drear, 
I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse 
Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse. 

And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear. 



SONNET. 



Quick o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts — 

Bleak blows the blast — now ho wis — then faintly dies — 
And oft upon its awful wings it wafts 

Thy dying wanderer's distant, feeble cries. 
Now, when athwart the gloom gaunts horror stalks, 

And midnight hags their damned vigils hold, 
The pensive poet 'mid the wild waste walks, 

And ponders on the ills life's paths unfold. 
Mindless of dangers hovering round, he goes, 

Insensible to every outward ill ; 
Yet oft his bosom heaves with rending throes, 

And oft big tears adown his worn cheeks trill. 
Ah ! 'tis the anguish of a mental sore, 
Which gnaws his heart and bids him hope no more. 



380 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



TIME. 

A POEM. 

This poem was begun either during the publication of Clifton Grove 
or shortly afterwards. The author never laid aside the intention of 
completing it, and some of the detached parts were among his latent 
productions. 



Genius of musings, who, the midnight hou 

Wasting in woods or haunted forests wild, 

Dost watch Orion in his arctic tower, 

Thy dark eye fixed as in some holy trance ; 

Or, when the volley' d lightnings cleave the air, 

And Ruin gaunt bestrides the winged storm, 

Sitt'st in some lonely watch-tower — where thy lamp, 

Faint-blazing, strikes the fisher's eye from far, 

And 'mid the howl of elements, unraov'd 

Dost ponder on the awful scene, and trace 

The vast effect to its superior source, — 

Spirit attend my lowly benison ! 

For now I strike to themes of import high 

The solitary lyre ; and borne by thee 

Above this narrow cell, I celebrate 

The mysteries of Time ! 

Him who, august, • 
Was ere these worlds were fashioned, — ere the sun 
Sprang from the east, or Lucifer displayed 
His glowing cresset 011 the arch of morn, 
Or Vesper gilded the serener eve. 
Yea, He had been for an eternity ! 
Had swept unvarying from eternity 
The harp of desolation, — ere his tones 
At God's command, assumed a milder strain, 
And startled on his watch, in the vast deep, 
Chaos's sluggish sentry, and evoked 
From the dark void the smiling universe. 
Chain' d to the grovelling frailties of the flesh 



itf.'feM). 







,. ^j-s?^ 



V^Ttf ~S 



^u-^r> 



TIME. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 3 Sl 



Mere mortal man, unpurged from earthly dross, 

Cannot survey, with fixed and steady eye, 

The dim uncertain gulf, which now the Muse 

Adventurous, would explore ;— but dizzy grown, 

He topples down the abyss. — If he would scan 

The fearful chasm, and catch a transient glimpse 

Of its unfathomable depths, that so 

His mind may turn with double joy to God, 

His only certainty and resting place ; 

He must put off a while this mortal vest, 

And learn to follow, without giddiness, 

To heights where all is vision, and surprise, 

And vague conjecture. — He must waste by night 

The studious taper, far from all resort 

Of crowds and folly, in some still retreat ; 

High on the beetling promontory's crest, 

Or in the caves of the vast wilderness, 

Where compass' d round with nature's wildest shapes, 

He may be driven to centre all his thoughts 

In the great Architect, who lives confest 

In rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes. 

Bo has divine philosophy, with voice 

Mild as the murmurs of the moonlight wave, 

Tutor'd the heart of him, who now awakes, 

Touching the cords of solemn minstrelsy, 

His faint, neglected song — intent to snatch 

Some vagrant blossom from the dangerous steep 

Of poesy, a bloom of such an hue, 

So sober, as may not unseemly suit 

With Truth's severer brow ; and one withal 

So hardy as shall brave the passing wind 

Of many winters, — rearing its meek head 

In loveliness, when he who gather'd it 

Is n umber' d with the generations gone. 

Yet not to me hath God's good providence 

Given studious leisure,* or unbroken thought, 

* The author was then in an attorney's office. 



382 POEMS OF HENRY K1RKE WHITE. 

Such as he owns, — a meditative man, 

Who from the blush of morn to quiet eve 

Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er, 

Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din ; 

From noise and wrangling far, and undisturb'd 

With Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the day 

Hath duties which require the vigorous hand 

Of steadfast application, but which leave 

No deep improving trace upon the mind. 

But be the day another's ; let it pass ! 

The night's my own ! — They cannot steal my night ! 

When Evening lights her folding-star on high, 

I live and breathe, and in the sacred hours 

Of quiet and repose my spirit flies, 

Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space, 

And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for heaven. 

Hence do I love the sobei -suited maid ; 

Hence Night's my friend, my mistress, and my theme, 

And she shall aid me now to magnify 

The night of ages, — now when the pale ray 

Of starlight penetrates the studious gloom, 

And at my window seated, — while mankind 

Are lock'd in sleep, I feel the freshening breeze 

Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole, 

Thought, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine, 

Assumes her wonted sway. 

Behold the world 
Rests, and her tired inhabitants have paused 
From trouble and turmoil. The widow now 
Has ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lie 
Lock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest, 
The man of sorrow has forgot his woes ; 
The outcast that his head is shelterless, 
His griefs unshared. — The mother tends no more 
Her daughter's dying slumbers, but, surprised 
With heaviness, and sunk upon her couch, 
Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, lull'd 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. Z^Z 

On Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapt, 
Crowning with hope's bland wreath his shuddering 

nurse 
Poor victim ! smiles. — Silence and deep repose 
Reign o'er the nations ; and the warning voice 
Of nature utters audibly within 
The general moral : — tell us that repose, 
Deathlike as this, but of far longer span, 
Is coming on us — that the weary crowds 
Who now enjoy a temporary calm, 
Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapt around 
With grave-clothes ; and their aching, restless heads 
Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved, 
Till the last trump shall break their sullen sleep. 

Who needs a teacher to admonish him 

That flesh is grass ? — That earthly things are mist ? 

What our joys but dreams ? and what our hopes 

But goodly shadows in a summer cloud ? 

There's not a wind that blows but bears with it 

Some rainbow promise : — Not a moment flies 

But puts its sickle in the fields of life, 

And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares. 

'Tis but as yesterday since on yon stars, 

Which now I view, the Chaldee shepherd * gazed, 

In his mid-watch observant, and disposed 

The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape. 

Yet in the interim what mighty shocks 

Have buffeted mankind, — whole nations razed, — 

Cities made desolate, — the polish'd sunk 

To barbarism, and once barbaric states 

Swaying the wand of science and of arts ; 

Illustrious deeds and memorable names 

Blotted from record, and upon the tongue 

Of gray tradition voluble no more. 

* Alluding to the first astronomical observations made by the Chaldean 
shepherds. 



384 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Where are the heroes of the ages past ? 

Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones 

Who flourish'd in the infancy of days ? 

All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame 

Exulting, mocking at the pride of man, 

Sits grim for getfulness. — The warrior's arm 

Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame ; 

Hush'd in his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaze 

Of his red eye-ball. — Yesterday his name 

Was mighty on the earth. — To-day — 'tis what ? 

The meteor of the night of distant years, 

That flash'd unnoticed, save by wrinkled old, 

Musing at midnight upon prophecies, 

Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam 

Point to the mist-poised shioud, then quietly 

Closed her pale lips, and locked the secret up 

Safe in the enamel's treasures. 

O how weak 
Is mortal man ! how trifling — how confined 
His scope of vision. Puffed with confidence, 
His phrase grows big with immortality, 
And he, poor insect of a summer's day, 
Dreams of eternal honors to his name ; 
Of endless glory and perennial bays. 
He idly reasons of eternity, 
As of the train of ages, — when, alas ! 
Ten thousand thousand of his centuries 
Are, in comparison a little point, 

Too trivial for accompt O it is strange, 

'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies ; 
Behold him proudly view some pompous pile, 
Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, 
And smile and say my name shall live with this 
'Till Time shall be no more ; while at his feet, 
Yea, at his very feet the crumbling dust 
Of the fallen fabric of the other day, 
Preaches the solemn lesson. — He should know, 
That time must conquer. That the loudest blast 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 385 

That ever fill'd Renown's obstreperous trump, 
Fades in the lapse of ages, and expires. 
"Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom 
Of the gigantic pyramid ? or who 
Rear'd its huge walls ! Oblivion laughs and says, 
The prey is mine. — They sleep, and never more 
Their names shall strike upon the ear of man, 
Their memory burst its fetters. 

Where is Rome t 
She lives but in the tale of other times ; 
Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home ; 
And her long colonnades, her public walks, 
Now faintly echo to the pilgrim's feet 
Who comes to mnse in solitude, and trace, 
Through the rank moss reveal'd, her honor'd dust. 
But not to Rome alone has fate confined 
The doom of ruin ; cities numberless, 
Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, 
And rich Phoenicia — they are blotted out, 
Half-razed from memory, and their very name 
And being in dispute. — Has Athens fallen ? 
Is polished Greece become the savage seat 
Of ignorance and sloth ? and shall we dare 

3fC tj> JjS 7|& 

And empire seeks another hemisphere. 
Where now is Britain ? — Where her laurell'd names, 
Her palaces and halls. Dash'd in the dust. 
Some second Vandal hath reduced her pride, 
And with one big recoil hath thrown her back 

To primitive barbarity. Again, 

Through her depopulated vales, the scream 
Of bloody superstition hollow rings, 
And the scarr'd native to the tempest howls 
The yell of deprecation. O'er her marts, 
Her crowded ports, broods Silence ; and the cry 
Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash 
Of distant billows, breaks alone the void. 
Even as the savage sits upon the stone 

25 



386 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



That marks where stood her capitols, and hears 

The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks 

From the dismaying solitude.— Her bards 

Sing in a language that hath perished ; 

And their wild harps, suspended o'er their graves, 

Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain. 

Meanwhile the arts, in second infancy, 

Rise in some distant clime, and then perchance 

Some bold adventurer, filled with golden dreams, 

Steering his bark through trackless solitudes, 

Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring prow 

Hath ever ploughed before, — espies the cliffs 

Of fallen Albion. — To the land unknown 

He journeys joyful ; and perhaps descries 

Some vestige of her ancient stateliness ; 

Then he, with vain conjecture, fills his mind 

Of the unheard-of race, which had arrived 

At science in that solitary nook, 

Far from the civil world : and sagely sighs 

And moralizes on the state of man. 

Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt, 

Moves on our being. We do live and breathe, 

And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not. 

We have our spring-time and our rottenness ; 

And as we fall, another race succeeds 

To perish likewise. — Meanwhile nature smiles — 

The seasons run their round — the sun fulfils 

His annual course — and heaven and earth remain 

Still changing, yet unchanged — still doom'd to feel 

Endless mutation in perpetual rest. 

Where are conceal' d the days which have elapsed ? 

Hid in the mighty cavern of the past, 

They rise upon us only to appal, 

By indistinct and half-glimpsed images, 

Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 387 

Oh it is fearful, on the midnight couch, 

When the rude rushing winds forget to rave, 

And the pale moon, that through the casement high 

Surveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hour 

Of utter silence, it is fearful then 

To steer the mind, in deadly solitude, 

Up the vague stream of probability : 

To wind the mighty secrets of the past, 

And turn the key of time ! — Oh who can strive 

To comprehend the vast, the awful truth, 

Of the eternity that hath gone by, 

And not recoil from the dismaying sense 

Of human impotence ? The life of man 

Is summ'd in birth-days^nd in sepulchres • 

But the Eternal God hac^io beginning • 

He hath no end. Time had been with him 

For everlasting, ere the daedal world 

Rose from the gulf in loveliness. — Like him 

It knew no source, like him 'twas uncreate. 

What is it then ? The past Eternity ! 

We comprehend a future without end ; 

We feel it possible that even yon sun 

May roll forever ; but we shrink amazed— 

We stand aghast, when we reflect that Time 

Knew no commencement.— That heap age on age, 

And million upon million, without end, 

And we shall never span the void of days 

That were, and are not but in retrospect. 

The Past is an unfathomable depth, 

Beyond the span of thought ; 'tis an elapse 

Which hath no mensuration, but hath been 

Forever and forever. 

Change of days 
To us is sensible ; and each revolve 
Of the recording sun conducts us on 
Further in life, and nearer to our goal. 
Not so with Time,— mysterious chronicler, 
He knoweth not mutation ; — centuries 



388 . POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Are to his being as a day, and days 
As centuries. — Time past, and time to come, 
Are always equal ; when the world began 
<iod had existed from eternity. 

* * * * 

Now look on man 
Myriads of ages hence. — Hath time elapsed I 
Is he not standing in the self-same place 
Where once we stood ! — The same Eternity 
Hath gone before him, and is yet to come : 
His past in not of longer span than ours, 
Though myriads of ages intervened ; 
For who can add to what has neither sum, 
Nor bound, nor source, nor tptimate, nor end ! 
Oh, who can compass the Almighty mind ? 
Who can unlock the secrets of the High ? 
In speculations of an altitude 
Sublime as this, our reason stands confest 
Foolish, and insignificant, and mean. 
Who can apply the futile argument 
Of finite beings to infinity ? 
He might as well compress the universe 
Into the hollow compass of a gourd, 
Scooped out by human art ; or bid the whale 
Drink up the sea it swims in. — Can the less 
Contain the greater ? or the dark obscure 
Infold the glories of meridian day ? 
What does philosophy impart to man 
But undiscovered wonders? — Let her soar 
Even to her proudest heights, — to where she caught 
The soul of Newton and of Socrates, 
She but extends the scope of wild amaze 
And admiration. All her lessons end 
In wider views of Grod's unfathom'd depths. 

Lo ! the unletter'd hind who never knew 
To raise/his mind excursive to the heights 
Of abstract contemplation ; as he sits 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 389 

On the green hillock by the hedgerow side, 

What time the insect swarms are murmuring, 

And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds 

That fringe, with loveliest hues, the evening sky, 

Feels in his soul the hand of nature rouse 

The thrill of gratitude, to him who form'd 

The goodly prospect ; he beholds the God 

Throned in the west ; and his reposing ear 

Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze, 

That floats through neighboring copse or fairy brake, 

Or lingers playful on the haunted stream. 

Go with the cotter to his winter fire. 

Where o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill, 

And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon ; 

Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar, 

Silent, and big with thought ; and hear him bless 

The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds 

For his snug hearth, and all his little joys. 

Hear him compare his happier lot with his 

Who bends his way across the wintry wolds, 

A poor night-traveller, while the dismal snow 

Beats in his face, and, dubious of his path, 

He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast, 

He hears some village mastiff's distant howl, 

And see?, far streaming, some lone cottage light ; 

Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes, 

And clasps his shivering hands ; or, overpowerd, 

Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh'd down with sleep, 

From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. 

Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise 

And glowing gratitude, — He turns to bless, 

With honest warmth, his Maker and his God. 

And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, 

Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bred, 

In want and labor, glows with nobler zeal 

To laud his Maker's attributes, while he 

Whom starry science in her cradle rock'd, 

And Castaly enchasten'd with its dews, 



39 o POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Closes his eyes upon the holy word ; 

And, blind to all but arrogance and pride, 

Dares to declare his infidelity, 

And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts ! 

What is philosophy, if it impart 

Irreverence for the Deity — or teach 

A mortal man to set his judgment up 

Against his Maker's will ? — The Polygar, 

Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with him 

Who thus perverts the talents he enjoys, 

Is the most bless'd of men ! — Oh ! I would walk 

A weary journey to the furthest verge 

Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, 

Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art, 

Preserves a lowly mind ; and to his God, 

Feeling the sense of his own littleness, 

Is as a child in meek simplicity I 

What is the pomp of learning ? the parade 

Of letters and of tongues ? E'en as the mists 

Or the gray morn before the rising sun, 

Tha. pass away and perish. 

Earthly things 
Are but the transient pageants of an hour ; 
And earthly pride is like the passing flower, 
That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. 
'Tis as the tower erected on a cloud, 
Baseless and silly as the school-boy's dream. 
Ages and epochs that destroy our pride, 
And then record its downfall, what are they 
But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain ? 
Hath Heaven its ages ; or doth Heaven preserve 
Its stated aeras ? Doth the Omnipotent 
Hear of to-morrows or of yesterdays? 
There is to God nor future nor a past : 
Throned in his might, all times to him are present ; 
He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come ; 
He sees before him one eternal now. 
Time nioveth not ! — our being 'tis that moves ; 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. ^j 

And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream, 
Dream of swift ages and revolving years, 
Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days : 
So the young sailor in the gallant bark, 
Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast 
Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while, 
Struck with amaze, that he is motionless, 
And that the land is sailing. 

Such, alas ! 
Are the illusions of this proteus life ! 
All, all is false. — Through every phasis still 
'Tis shadowy and deceitful. — It assumes 
The semblan ces of things, and specious shapes ; 
But the lost traveller might as soon rely 
On the evasive spirit of the marsh, 
Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits, 
O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow-way, 
As we on its appearances. 

On earth 
There is nor certainty, nor stable hope. 
As well the weary mariner, whose bark 
Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, 
Where storm and darkness hold their drear domain, 
And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust 
To expectation of serener skies, 
And linger in the very jaws of death, 
Because some peevish cloud were opening, 
Or the loud storm had bated in its rage ; 
As we look forward in this vale of tears 
To permanent delight — from some slight glimpse 
Of shadowy, unsubstantial happiness. 
The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond 
The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep 
Of mortal desolation.— He beholds, 
Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride 
Of rampant ruin, or the unstable waves ' 
Of dark vicissitude. — Even in death, 
In that dread hour, when, with a giant pang, 



39 2 OEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Tearing the tender fibres of the heart, 

The immortal spirit struggles to be free, 

Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not, 

For it exists beyond the narrow verge 

Of the cold sepulchre. — The petty joys 

Of fleeting life indignantly it spurn'd, 

And rested on the bosom of its God. 

This is man's only reasonable hope ; 

And 'tis a hope which, cherish'd in the breast, 

Shall not be disappointed. — Even He, 

The Holy One — Almighty — who elanced 

The rolling world along its airy way ! 

Even he will deign to smile upon the good, 

And welcome him to these celestial seats, 

Where joy and gladness hold their changeless reign. 

Thou proud man look upon yon starry vault. 

Survey the countless gems which richly stud 

The night's imperial chariot ; — Telescopes 

Will show the myriads more, innumerous 

As the sea-sand ; — Each of those little lamps 

Is the great source of light, the central sun 

Round which some other mighty sisterhood 

Of planets travel, — Every planet stock'd 

With living beings impotent as thee. 

Now, proud man — now, where is thy greatness fled? 

What art thou in the scale of universe? 

Less, less than nothing ! — Yet of thee the God 

Who built this wondrous frame of worlds is careful, 

As well as of the mendicant who begs 

The leavings of thy table. And shalt thou 

Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn 

His heavenly providence! Deluded fool, 

Even now the thunderbolt is wing'd with death, 

Even now thou totterest on the brink of Hell. 

How insignificant is mortal man, 
Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour I 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 393 

How poor, how trivial in the vast conceit 

Of infinite duration, boundless space ! 

God of the universe — Almighty One — 

Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds, 

Or with the storm, thy rugged charioteer, 

Swift and impetuous as the northern blast, 

Ridest from pole to pole ; — Thou who dost hold 

The forked lightnings in thine awful grasp, 

And reinest-in the earthquake, when thy wrath 

Goes down towarcbfcerring man, — I would address 

To thee my parting paean ; for of thee, 

Great beyond comprehension, who thyself 

Art time and space, sublime infinitude, 

Of thee has been my song ! — With awe I kneel 

Trembling before the footstool of thy state, 

My God, my Father I— I will sing to thee 

A hymn of laud, a solemn canticle, 

Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades 

The throne of Death, I hang my mournful lyre, 

And give its wild strings to the desert gale. 

Rise, son of Salem, rise, and join the strain, 

Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp, 

And, leaving vain laments, arouse thy soul 

To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing, 

And halleluiah, for the Lord is great, 

And full of mercy ! He has thought of man ; 

Tea, compass'd round with countless worlds, has 

thought 
Of we poor worms, that batten in the dews 
Of morn, and perish ere the noonday sun. 
Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful ; 
He gave the Nubian lion but to live, 
To rage its hour and perish ; but on man 
He lavish'd immortality, and Heaven. 
The eagle falls from her aerial tower, 
And mingles with irrevocable dust ; 
But man from death springs joyful, 
Springs up to life and to eternity. 



394 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Oh that, insensate of the favoring boon, 

The great exclusive privilege bestow'd 

On us unworthy trifles, men should dare 

To treat with slight regard the proffer' d heaven. 

And urge the lenient, but All- Just, to swear 

In wrath, " They shall not enter in my rest ! " 

Might I address the supplicative strain 

To thy high footstool, I would pray that thou 

Wouldst pity the deluded wanderers, 

And fold them, ere they perish, in thgfc flock. 

Yea, I would bid thee pity them, through him 

Thy well-beloved, who, upon the cross, 

Bled a dread sacrifice for human sin, 

And paid, with bitter agony, the debt 

Of primitive transgression. 

Oh ! I shrink, 
My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect 
That the time hastens, when, in vengeance clothed, 
Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of fate 
On erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheels 
Then shall rebound to earth's remotest caves, 
And stormy Ocean from his bed shall start 
At the appalling summons. Oh ! how dread 
On the dark eye of miserable man, 
Chasing his sins in secrecy and gloom, 
Will burst the effulgence of the opening heaven ; 
When to the brazen trumpet's deafening roar, 
Thou and thy dazzling cohorts shall descend 
Proclaiming the fulfilment of the word ! 
The dead shall start astonish'd from their sleep ! 
The sepulchres shall groan and yield their prey, 
The bellowing floods shall disembogue their charge 
Of human victims. — From the farthest nook 
Of the wide world shall troop the risen souls, 
From him whose bones are bleaching in the waste 
Of polar solitudes, or him whose corpse, 
Whelm'd in the loud Atlantic's vexed tides, 
Is washed on some Caribbean prominence, 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 395 

To the lone tenant of some secret cell 

In the Pacific's vast * * * realm, 

Where never plummet's sound was heard to part 

The wilderness of water ; they shall come 

To greet the solemn advent of the Judge. 

Thou first shalt summon the elected saints 

To their apportion' d heaven ; and thy Son, - 

At thy right hand shall smile with conscious joy 

On all his past distresses, when for them 

He bore humanity's severest pangs. 

Then shalt thou seize the avenging scimitar, 

And, with a roar as loud and horrible 

As the stern earthquake's monitory voice, 

The wicked shall be driven to their abode, 

Dovrn the unmitigable gulf, to wail 

And gnash their teeth in endless agony. 
# # * # 

Rear thou aloft thy standard.— Spirit rear 

Thy flag on high ! — Invincible, and throned 

In unparticipated might. Behold 

Earth's proudest boast, beneath thy silent sway, 

Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while, 

Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rush 

Of mighty generations, as they pass 

To the broad gulf of ruin, and dost stamp 

Thy signet on them, and they rise no more. 

Who shall contend with Time — unvanquish'd Time, 

The conqueror of conquerors, and lord 

Of desolation ? — Lo ! the shadows fly, 

The hours and days, and years and centuries, 

They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall. 

The young are old, the old are in their graves. 

Heardst thou that shout ? It rent the vaulted skies ; 

It was the voice of people, — mighty crowds, — 

Again ! 'tis hush'd — Time speaks, and all is hush'd ; 

In the vast multitude now reigns alone 

Unruffled solitude. They all are still ; 



396 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



All — yea, the whole — the incalculable mass, 
Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains. 

Rear thou aloft thy standard. — Spirit rear 

Thy flag on high ; and glory in thy strength. 

But do thou know, the season yet shall come. 

When from its base thine adamantine throne 

Shall tumble ; when thine arm shall cease to strike, 

Thy voice forget its petrifying power ; 

When saints shall shout, and Time shall be no more. 

Yea, he doth come — the mighty champion comes, 

Whose potent spear shall give thee thy death-wound, 

Shall crush the conqueror of conquerors, 

And desolate stern desolation's lord. 

Lo ! where he cometh ! the Messiah comes ! 

The King ! the Comforter ! the Christ ! — He comes 

To burst the bonds of death, and overturn 

The power of Time. — Hark ! the trumpet's blast 

Rings o'er the heavens ! — They rise, the myriads rise — 

Even from their graves they spring, and burst the chains 

Of torpor. — He has ransomed them, * * 

Forgotten generations live again, 

Assume the bodily shapes they own'd of old, 

Beyond the flood : — the righteous of their times 

Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy. 

The sainted mother wakes, and, in her lap, 

Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave, 

And heritor with her of Heaven, — a flower 

Wash'd by the blood of Jesus from the stain 

Of native guilt, even in its early bud. 

And hark ! those strains, how solemnly serene 

They fall, as from the skies — at distance fall — 

Again more loud ; the hallelujahs swell ; 

The newly-risen catch the joyful sound ; 

They glow, they burn : and now, with one accord, 

Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the song 

Of praise to God on high, and to the Lamb 

Who bled for mortals. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 397 



Yet there is peace for man.— Yea, there is peace, 

Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene ; 

When from the crowd, and from the city far, 

Haply he may be set (in his late walk 

O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the bows 

Of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone, 

And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveys 

The solemn shadows of the heavens sail, 

And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time 

Will waft him to repose, to deep repose, 

Far from the unquietness of life — from noise 

And tumult far — beyond the flying clouds, 

Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene, 

Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no more. 



39 8 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



THE CHRISTIAD. 
31 JRimnt JJoem. 



This was the work which the author had. most at heart. His riper judg- 
ment would probably have perceived that the subject was ill chosen. 
What is said so well in the Censura Literaria of all scriptural sub- 
jects for narrative poetry, applies peculiarly to this. "Anything 
taken from it leaves the story imperfect ; anything added to it dis- 
gusts, and almost shocks us a impious. As Omar said of the Alex- 
andrian Library, we may say of such writings, if they contain only 
what is in the scriptures they are superfluous ; if what is not in them 
they are false." — It may be added, that the mixture of mythology 
makes truth itself appear fabulous. 

There is a great power in the execution of this fragment. — In editing 
these remains, I have, with that decorum which it is to be wished all 
editors would observe, abstained from informing the reader what he 
is to admire and what he is not ; but I cannot refrain from saying, 
that the two last stanzas greatly affected me, when I discovered them 
written on the leaf of a different book, and apparently long after the 
first canto ; and greatly shall I be mistaken if they do not affect the 
reader also. 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 399 



THE CHRISTIAD. 



BOOK I. 

1. 

I sitfG the Cross ! — Ye white robed angel choirs, 
Who know the chords of harmony to sweep ; 

Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires, 

Were wont of old your hovering watch to keep, 
Oh, now descend ! and with your harpings deep, 

Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream 
Of music, — such as soothes the saint's last sleep, 

Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream, 
And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious theme. 

* 11. 

Mourn ! Salem, mourn ! low lies thine humbled state, 
Thy glittering fanes are levell'd with the ground ! 

Fallen is thy pride ! — Thine halls are desolate ! 
Where erst was heard the timbrel's sprightly sound 
And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly round, 

There breeds the wild fox lonely, — and aghast 
Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound, 

Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast 
Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste. 

in. 

It is for this, proud Solyma ! thy towers 
Lie crumbling in the dust ; for this forlorn 

Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers, 
While stern destruction laughs, as if in scorn, 
That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born ; 



400 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



And, with most bitter persecuting ire, 

Pursued his footsteps till the last day-dawn 
Rose on his fortunes — and thou saw'st the fire 
That came to light the world in one great flash expire. 

IV. 

Oh ! for a pencil dipt in living light, 

To paint the agonies that Jesus bore ! 
Oh ! for the long lost harp of Jesse's might, 

To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore ; 

While seraph hosts the lofty paean pour, 
And heaven enraptur'd lists the loud acclaim I 

May a frail mortal dare the theme explore ? 
May he to human ears his weak song frame? 
Oh ! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name ? 

v. 

Spirits of pity ! mild Crusaders come ! 

Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float ; 
And give him eloquence who else were dumb, 

And raise to feeling and to fire his note ! 

And thou Urania ! who dost still devote 
Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine, 

Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote, 
Throw o'er thy bard that solemn stole of thine, 
And clothe him for the fight with energy divine. 

VI. 

When from the temple's lofty summit prone. 

Satan o'ercome, fell down ; and 'throned there, 
The Son of God confest, in splendor shone: 

Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air, 

Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair, 
* * * * 

Fled the stern king of Hell — and with the glare 
Of gliding meteors, ominous and red, 
Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his head. 



POEMS OF HENRY. KIRKE WHITE. \Ol 

VII. 

Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulph which late 

The rude Massagetae adored — he bent 
His northering course, — while round, in dusky state, 

The assembling fiends their summon' d troops aug- 
ment, 

Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they went, 
While as they pass'd to regions more severe, 

The Lapland sorcerer swell'd, with loud lament, 
The solitary gale, and filled with fear, 
The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near. 

vin. 

Where the North Pole, in moody solitude, 
Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes around ; 

There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude, 
Form a gigantic hall ; where never sound 
Startled dull Silence's ear, save when profound, 

The smoke-frost mutter'd : there drear Cold for aye 
'Thrones him, — and fix'd on his primaeval mound, 

Ruin, the giant, sits ; while stern Dismay 
Stalks like some woe-struck man along the desert way. 

IX. 

In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair, 
No sweet remain of life encheers the sight : 

The dancing heart's blood in an instant there 

Would freeze to marble. — Mingling day and night 
(Sweet interchange which makes our labors light), 

Are there unknown ; while in the summer skies 
The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly height, 

Nov «ver sets till from the scene he flies, 
And weaves the long bleak night of half the year to risa. 

X. 

'Twas there yet shuddering from the burning lake, 
Satan had fix'd their next consistory ; 

26 



402 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

When parting last he fondly hoped to shake 
Messiah's constancy, — And thus to free 
The powers of darkness from the dread decree 

Of bondage, brought by him, and circumvent 
The unerring ways of him whose eye can see 

The womb of Time, and in its embryo pent, 
Discern the colors clear of every dark event. 

XI. 

Here the stern monarch stayed his rapid flight, 

And his thick hosts, as with a jetty pall, 
Hovering obscured the north star's peaceful light, 

Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's call. 

He, meanwhile, downward with a sudden fall, 
Dropt on the echoing ice. Instant the sound 

Of their broad vans was hush'd, and o'er the hall, 
Vast and obscure, the gloomy cohorts bound, 
Till, wedged in ranks, the seat of Satan they surround. 

XII. 

High on a solium of the solid wave, 

Prankt with rude shapes by the fantastic frost, 

He stood in silence ; — now keen thoughts engrave 
Dark figures on his front ; and tempest tost, 
He fears to say that every hope is lost. 

Meanwhile the multitude as death are mute : 
So ere the tempest on Molacca's coast, 

Sweet Quiet, gently touching her soft lute, 
Sings to the whispering waves the prelude to dispute. 

XIII. 

At length collected, o'er the dark Divan 

The arch fiend glanced, as by the Boreal blaze 

Their downcast brows were seen, — and thus began 
His fierce harangue ; — (t Spirits ! our better days 
Are now elapsed ; Moloch and Belial's praise 

Shall sound no more in groves by myriads trod. 
Lo ! the light breaks ! — The astonished nations gaze 1 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 4°3 

For us is lifted high the avenging rod ! 
For, spirits, this is He — this is the Son of God I 

XIV. 

" What then ! — shall Satan's spirit crouch to fear? 

Shall he who shook the pillars of God's reign, 
Drop from his unnerved arm the hostile spear ! 

Madness ! The very thought would make me fain 

To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy plain, 
And hurl them at their Maker !— Fix'd as fate 

I am his Foe !— Yea, though his pride should deign 
To soothe mine ire with half his regal state, 
Still would I burn with fixt unalterable hate. 

xv. 

" Now hear the issue of my curst em prize, 
When from our last synod I took flight, 

Buoy'd with false hopes, in some deep-laid disguise, 
To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write 
His own self-condemnation ; — in the plight 

Of aged man in the lone wilderness, 

Gathering a few stray sticks, I met his sight ; 

And leaning on my staff seem'd much to guess 
What cause could mortal bring to that forlorn recess. 

XVI. 

" Then thus in homely guise I featly framed 

My lowly speech—' Good Sir, what leads this way 
Your wandering steps ? must hapless chance be blamed 

That you so far from haunts of mortals stray ? 

Here have I dwelt for many a lingering day, 
Nor trace of man have seen.— But how ! methought 

Thou wert the youth on whom God's holy ray 
I saw descend in Jordan, when John taught 
That he to fallen man the saving promise brought.' 

XVII. 

" ' I am that man,' said Jesus ; " ' I am he. 
But truce to questions — Canst thou point my feet 



4°4 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

To some low hut, if haply such there be 
In this wild labyrinth, where I may meet 
With homely greeting, and may sit and eat: 
For forty days 1 have tarried fasting here, 
Hid in the dark glens of this lone retreat, 
And now I hunger ; and my fainting ear 
Longs much to greet the sound of fountains gushing 
near.' 

XVIII. 
"Then thus I answer'd wily : — 'If, indeed, 

Son of our God thou be'st, what need to seek 
For food from men ? — Lo ! on these flint stones feed. 
Bid them be bread ! Open thy lips and speak, 
And living rills from yon parch'd rock will break.' 
Instant as I had spoke, his piercing eye 

Fix'd on my face ; the blood forsook my cheek, 
I could not bear his gaze ; my mask slipped by ; 
I would have shunn'd his look, but had not power to fly. 

XIX. 

" Then he rebuked me with the holy word — 
Accursed sounds ! but now my native pride 

Return'd, and by no foolish qualm deterr'd, 
I bore him from the mountain's woody side, 
Up to the summit, where extending wide 

Kingdoms and cities, palaces and fanes, 

Bright sparkling in the sunbeams were descried, 

And in gay dance, amid luxuriant plains, 
Tripp'd to the jocund reed the emasculated swains. 

xx. 

' Behold,' I cried, ' these glories ! scenes divine 1 

Thou whose sad prime in pining want decays, 
And these, O rapture ! these shall all be thine, 

If thou wilt give to me, not God, the praise. 

Hath he not given to indigence thy days ? 
Is not thy portion peril here and pain ? 

Oh ! leave his temples, shun his wounding ways I 



POEMS OF HENRY KTRKE WHITE. 405 

Seize the tiara ! these mean weeds disdain, 
Kneel, kneel, thou man of woe, and peace and splendor 
gain.' 

XXI. 

" ' Is it not written,' sternly he replied, 
' Tempt not the Lord thy God ? ' Frowning he 
spake, 
And instant sounds, as of the ocean tide, 

Rose, and the whirlwind from its prison brake, 
And caught me up aloft, till in one flake, 
The sidelong volley met my swift career, 

And smote me earthward. — Jove himself might 
quake 
At such a fall ; my sinews cracked, and near. 
Obscure, and dizzy sounds seemed ringing in mine ear. 

XXII. 

" Senseless and stunn'd I lay ; till casting round 
My half unconscious gaze, I saw the foe 

Borne on a car of roses to the ground, 
By volant angels ; and as sailing slow 
He sunk, the hoary battlement below, 

While on the tall spire slept the slant sunbeam, 
Sweet on the enamour'd zephyr was the flow 

Of heavenly instruments. Such strains oft seem, 
On starlight hill, to soothe the Syrian shepherd's dream. 

XXIII. 

" I saw blaspheming. Hate renew'd my strength ; 

I smote the ether with my iron wing, 
And left the accursed scene. — Arrived at length 

In these drear halls, to ye, my peers ! I bring 

The tidings of defeat. Hell's haughty king 
Thrice vanquish'd, baffled, smitten, and dismay'd ! 

O shame ! Is this the hero who could fling 
Defiance at his Maker, while array'd, 
High o'er the walls of light rebellion's banners play'd ! 



406 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



XXIV. 

" Yet shall not Heaven's bland minions triumph long ; 

Hell yet shall have revenge.— glorious sight, 
Prophetic visions on my fancy throng, ' 
I see wild agony's lean finger write 
Sad figures on his forehead !— Keenly bright 
Revenge's flambeau burns ! JNow in his eyes 

Stand the hot tears.— imman tied in the night, 
Lo ! he retires to mourn !— I hear his cries,— 
He faints— he falls— and lo !— 'tis true, ye powers, he 
dies." 

XXV. 

Thus spake the chieftain,— and as if he view'd 
The scene he pictured, with his foot advanced, 

And chest inflated, motionless he stood, 
While under his uplifted shield he glanced, 
With straining eye-ball fix'd, like one entranced, 

On viewless air ; — thither the dark platoon 

Gazed wondering, nothing seen, save when there 
danced 

The northern flash, or fiend late fled from noon, 
Darken'd the disk of the descending moon, 

XXVI. 

Silence crept stilly through the ranks. — The breeze 
Spake most distinctly. As the sailor stands, 

When all the midnight gasping from the seas 
Break boding sobs, and to his sight expands 
High on the shrouds the spirit that commands 

The ocean-farer's life ; so stiff — so sere 
Stood each dark power ; — while through their nu- 
merous bands 

Beat not one heart, and mingling hope and fear 
Now told them all was lost, now bade revenge appear. 

XXVII. 

One there was there, whose loud defying tongue 
Nor hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 4^7 



Of over-boiling malice. Utterance long 

Plis passion mock'd, and long he strove to tell 
His laboring ire ; still syllable none fell 

From his pale quivering lip, but died away 
For very fury ; from each hollow cell 

Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray, 
And ******** 

XXVIII. 

" This comes,'' at length burst from the furious chief, 

" This comes of distant counsels ! Here behold 
The fruits of wily cunning ! the relief 
Which coward policy would fain unfold, 
To soothe the powers that warr'd with Heaven of 
old! 
O wise ! O potent ! O sagacious snare ! 

And lo ! our prince — the mighty and the bold, 
There stands he, spell struck, gaping at the air, 
While Heaven subverts his reign, and plants her stand- 
ard there." 

XXIX. 

Here, as, recovered, Satan fixed his eye 

Full on the speaker ; dark it was and stern ; 

He wrapt his black vest round him gloomily, 

And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts con- 
cern. 
Him Moloch marked, and strove again to turn 

His soul to rage. " Behold, behold," he cried, 

" The lord of Hell, who bade these legions spurn 

Almighty rule — behold, he lays aside 
The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man defied." 

XXX. 

Thus ended Moloch, and his [burning] tongue 
Hung quivering, as if [mad] to quench its heat 

In slaughter. So, his native wilds among, 
The famish' d tiger pants, when near his seat, 



408 POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



Press'd on the sands, he marks the traveller's feet, 
Instant low murmurs ruse, and many a sword 

Had from its scabbard sprung ; but toward the seat 
Of the arch-fiend all turn'd with one accord, 
As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde. 
* * * * 

Ye powers of Hell, I am no coward. I proved this of 
old ; who led your forces against the armies of Jehovah? 
Who coped with Ithuriel, and the thunders of the 
Almighty ? Who, when stunned and confused ye lay 
on the burning lake, who first awoke, and collected 
your scattered powers ? Lastly, who led you across the 
unfathomable abyss to this delightful world, and estab- 
lished that reign here which now totters to its base. 
How, therefore, dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a 
stain on Satan's bravery? he who prays only on the 
defenceless — who sucks the blood of infants, and de- 
lights only in acts of ignoble cruelty and unequal con- 
tention. Away with the boaster who never joins in 
action, but, like a cormorant, hovers over the field, to 
feed upon the wounded, and overwhelm the dying. 
True bravery is as remote from rashness as from hesita- 
tion ; let us counsel coolly, but let us execute our coun- 
selled purposes determinately. In power we have 
learnt, by that experiment which lost us heaven, that 
"we are inferior to the Thunder-bearer. In subtlety — 
in subtlety alone we are his equals. Open war is impos- 
sible. 

" Thus we shall pierce our Conqueror, through the 
race 

Which as himself he loves ; thus if we fall, 
We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace 

Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call 

Of vengeance rings within me ! Warriors all, 
The word is Vengeance, and the spur Despair. 

Away with coward wiles ! — Death's coal-black pal 



POEMS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 409 



Be now our standard ! — Be our torch, the glare 
Of cities fired ! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the air ! " 

Him answering rose Mecashpim, who of old, 
Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves, 

Was worshipped, God of Fire, with charms untold 
And mystery. His wandering spirit loves, 
Now vainly searching for the flame it roves, 

And sits and mourns like some white robed sire, 
Where stood his temple, and where fragrant cloves 

And cinnamon upheap'd the sacred pyre, 
And nightly magi watch/d the everlasting fire. 

He waved his robe of flame, he cross' d his breast, 
And sighing — his papyrus scarf survey'd, 

Woven with dark characters ; then thus address'd 
The troubled counsel. 

* * * * 

I. 

Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme 

With self-rewarding toil ; — thus far have sung 
Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem 

The lyre, wh ich I in early days have strung ; 

And now my spirits faint, and I have hung 
The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, 

On the dark cj T press ! and the strings which rung 
With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, 
Or when the breeze comes by moan and are heard no 
more. 

And must the harp of Judah sleep again, 

Shall I no more re-animate the lay ! 
Oh ! thou who visitest the sons of men, 

Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, 

One little space prolong my mournful day ! 
One little lapse suspend thy last decree ! 

I am a youthful traveller in the way, 
And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, 
Ere I with death shake hands, and smile that I am free. 



41 o PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



PROSE COMPOSITIONS. 



REMARKS ON THE ENGLISH POETS. 

IMITATIONS. 

The sublimity and unaffected beauty of the sacred 
writings are in no instance more conspicuous than in the 
following verses of the 18th Psalm : — 

" He bowed the heavens also and came down : and darkness was under 
his feet. 

" And he rode upon a cherub and did fly : yea he did fly upon tha 
wings of the wind." 

None of our better versions have been able to pre- 
serve the original graces of these verses. That wretched 
one of Thomas Sternhold, however (which, to the dis- 
grace and manifest detriment of religious worship, is 
generally used), has, in this solitary instance, and then 
perhaps by accident, given us the true spirit of the 
Psalmist, and has surpassed not only Merrick, but even 
the classic Buchanan.* This version is as follows : — 

u The Lord descended from above, 
And bowed the heavens high, 
And uuderneath his feet he cast 
The darkness of the sky. 

* That the reader may judge for himself, Buchanan's translation is 
s.ibjoinad : — 

" Utque suum dominum terra demittat in orbem 
Leniter inclinat jussum fastigia coelum ; 
Suceednnt pedibus fuscae caliginis umbra ; 
Ille vehens curru volucri, cui flammeus ales 
Lora tenons levibus ventorum adremigat alis 
Se circum fulvo nebularum involvit amictu, 
Pratenditque cavis piceas in nubibus undas." 
This is somewhat too harsh and pixjsaie, and there' is an unpleasant 
cacophony in the terminations of the fifth and sixth lines. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 411 



" On cherubs and on cherubims 
Full royally he rode, 
And on the wings of mighty winds 
Came flying all abroad." 

Dryden honored these verses with very high com- 
mendation, and, in the following lines of his Annus 
Mirabilis, has apparently imitated them, in preference 
to the original. 

" The duke less numerous, but in courage more, 
On wings of all the winds to combat flies." 

And in his Ceyx and Alcyone, from Ovid, he has — 

" And now sublime she rides upon the wind." 

which is probably imitated, as well as most of the fol- 
lowing, notfromSternhold, but the original. Thus Pope, 

"Not God alone in the still calm we find, 
He mounts the storm and rides upon the wind," 

And Addison — 

" Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm." 

The unfortunate Chatterton has — 

" And rides upon the pinions of the wind." 

And Gray — 

'•'With arms sublime that float upon the air." 

Few poets of eminence have less incurred the charge 
of plagiarism than Milton ; yet many instances might 
be adduced of similarity of idea and language with the 
Scripture, which are certainly more than coincidences ; 
and some of these I shall, in a future number, present 
to your readers. Thus the present passage in the 
Psalmist was in all probability in his mind when he 
wrote — 

" And with mighty wings outspread, 

Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast abyss." 

Par. Lost. 1. 20, b. i. 



412 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

The third verse of the 104th Psalm, — 

" He maketh the clouds liis chariot, and walketh upon the wing* of the 
■wind," — 

is evidently taken from the before-mentioned verses in 
the 18th Psalm, on which it is perhaps an improvement. 
It has also been imitated by two of our first poets, 
Shakespeare and Thomson. The former in Romeo and 
Juliet — 

" Bestrides the lazy paced clouds, 
And sails upon the bosom of the air." 

The latter in Winter, 1. 199— 

" 'Till Nature's kinq: who oft 



Amid tempestuous darkness dwells alone, 
And on the wings of the careering winds 
Walks dreadfully serene." 

As these imitations have not before, I believe, been 
noticed, they cannot fail to interest the lovers. of polite 
letters ; and they are such as at least will amuse your 
readers in general. If the sacred writings were atten- 
tively perused, we should find innumerable passages 
from which our best modern poets have drawn their 
most admirable ideas ; and the enumerations of these 
instances would perhaps attract the attention of many 
persons to those volumes, which they now perhaps think 
to contain everything tedious and disgusting, but which, 
on the contrary, they would find replete with interest, 
beauty, and true sublimity. 



STERNHOLD AND HOPKINS. 

Mr. Editor, 

In your "Mirror" for July, a Mr. William Toone 
has offered a few observations on a paper of mine, in a 
preceding number, containing remarks on the versions 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 4*3 

« ' 

and imitations of the ninth and tenth verses of the 18th 
Psalm, to which I think it necessary to offer a few words 
by way of reply ; as they not only put an erroneous 
construction on certain passages of that paper, but are 
otherwise open to material objection. 

The object of Mr. Toone, in some parts of his obser- 
vations, appears to have been to refute something 
which he fancied I had advanced, tending to establish 
the general merit of Sternhold and Hopkins' translation 
of the Psalms : but he might have saved himself this 
unnecessary trouble, as I have decidedly condemned it 
as mere doggerel, still preserved in our churches to the 
detriment of religion. And the version of the passage 
in question is adduced as a brilliant, though probably 
accidental, exception to the general character of the 
work. What necessity, therefore, your correspondent 
could see for " hoping that I should think with him, 
that the sooner the old version of the Psalms was con- 
signed to' oblivion, the better it would be for rational de- 
votion" I am perfectly at a loss to imagine. 

This concluding sentence of Mr. Toone's paper, 
which I consider as introduced merely by way of round- 
ing the period, and making a graceful exit, needs no 
further animadversion. I shall therefore proceed to ex- 
amine the objections of the "worthy clergyman of the 
Church of England " to these verses cited by your cor- 
respondent, by which he hopes to prove, that Dryden, 
Knox, and the numerous other eminent men who have 
expressed their admiration thereof, to be little better 
than idiots. The first is this : 

"Cherubim is the plural for Cherub; but our ver- 
sioner, by adding an .9 to it, has rendered them both 
plurals." By adding an s to what ? If the pronoun it 
refer to cherubim, as according to the construction of 
the sentence it really does, the whole objection is non- 
sense. But the worthy gentleman, no doubt, meant to 
say, that Sternhold had rendered them both plurals, by 
the addition of an s to cherub. Even in this sense, how- 



414 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

___ . - . 

ever, I conceive the charge to be easily obviated ; for, 
though cherubim is doubtless usually considered as the 
plural of cherub, yet the two words are frequently so 
used in the Old Testament as to prove, that they were 
often applied to separate ranks of being. One of these, 
which I shall cite, will dispel all doubt on the subject. 

" And within the oracle he made two cherubims of olive tree, each ten 
cubits high " — 1 Kings, v. 23, chap. vii. 

The other objection turns upon a word with which 
it is not necessary for me to interfere ; for I did not 
quote these verses as instances of the merit of Sternhold, 
or his version, I only asserted, that the Jines which I 
then copied — viz., 

" The Lord descended from above," &c. 

were truly noble and sublime. Whether, therefore, 
Sternhold wrote all the winds (as asserted by your cor- 
respondent, in order to furnish room for objection) or 
mighty winds, is of no import. But if this really be a 
subsequent alteration, I think, at least, there is no im- 
provement ; for when we conceive the winds as as- 
sembling from all quarters, at the omnipotent command 
of the Deity, and bearing him with their united forces 
from the heavens, we have a more sublime image, than 
when we see him as flying merely on mighty winds, or 
as driving his team (or troop) of angels on a strong 
tempest's rapid wing, with most amazing swiftness, as 
elegantly represented by Brady and Tate.* 

* How any man, enjoying the use of his senses, could prefer the con- 
temptible version of Brady and Tate of this verse to Sternhold, is to me 
inexplicable. The epithets which are introduced would have disgraced 
a school-boy, and the majestic imagery of the original is sacrificed to 
make room for tinsel and fustian. 

" Tbe chariot of the king of kings, 
Which active troops of angels drew, 
On a strong tempest's rapid wings, 
With most amazing sioiftness fleio" 

I differ from your correspondent's opinion, that these 
verses, so far from possessing sublimity, attract the 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 4*5 

reader merely by their rumbling sountZ. And here it 
may not be amiss to observe, that the true sublime does 
not consist of high-sounding words, or pompous mag- 
nificence ; on the contrary, it most frequently appears 
clad in native dignity and simplicity, without art and 
without ornament. 

The most elegant critic of antiquity, Longinus, in his 
treatise on . the sublime, adduces the following passage 
from the book of Genesis, as possessing that quality in 
an eminent degree — 

" God said let there be light, and there teas light :Let — the earth be, and 
the earth was * — " 

From what I have advanced on this subject, I would 
not have it inferred, that I conceive the version of Stern- 
hold and Hopkins, generally speaking, to be superior 
to that of Brady and Tate ; for on the contrary, in al- 
most every instance, except that above-mentioned, the 
latter possesses an indubitable right to pre-eminence. 
Our language, however, cannot yet boast one version 
possessing the true spirit of the original ; some are 
beneath contempt, and the best has scarcely attained 
mediocrity. Your correspondent has quoted some verses 
from Tate, in triumph, as comparatively excellent ; but, 
n my opinion, they are also instances of our general 
failure in sacred poetry : they abound in those ambitiosa 
ornamenta which do well to please women and children, 
but which disgust the man of taste. 

To the imitations already noticed of this passage, per- 
mit me to add the following— 

" But various Iris Jove's commands to bear, 
Speeds on the wings of winds through liquid air." 

Pope's Iliad, b. ii. 

«* Miguel cruzando os pelagos do vento." 

Carlos Reduzido, canto i. 

By Pedro de Azevedo Tojal, an ancient Portuguese poet 

of some merit. ' 

*The critic apparently quoted from memory, for we may search in vain 
for the latter part of this sentence. 



41 6 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

REMARKS ON THE ENGLISH POETS. 

WARTON. 

The poems of Thomas Warton are replete with a 
sublimity and richness of imagery, which seldom fail to 
enchant : every line presents new beauties of idea, aided 
by all the magic of animated diction. From the inex- 
haustible stores of figurative language, majesty, and 
sublimity, which the ancient English poets afford, he 
has culled some of the richest and the sweetest flowers. 
But, unfortunately, in thus making use of the beauties of 
other writers, he has been too unsparing ; for the greater 
number of his ideas, and nervous epithets, cannot, 
strictly speaking, be called his own ; therefore, however 
we may be charmed by the grandeur of his images, or 
the felicity of his expression, we must still bear in our 
recollection, that Ave cannot with justice bestow upon 
him the highest eulogium of genius — that of originality. 

It has, with much justice, been observed, that Pope 
and his imitators have introduced a species of refine- 
ment into our language, which has banished that nerve 
and pathos for which Milton had rendered it eminent. 
Harmonious modulations, and unvarying exactness of 
measure, totally precluding sublimity and fire, have re- 
duced our fashionable poetry to mere sing-song. But 
Thomas Warton, whose taste was unvitiated by the 
frivolities of the day, immediately saw the intrinsic 
worth of what the world then slighted. He saw that 
the ancient poets contained a fund of strength, and 
beauty of imagery as well as diction, which in the hands 
of genius would shine forth with redoubled' lustre. En- 
tirely rejecting, therefore, modern niceties, he extracted 
the honeyed sweets from these beautiful, though neglected 
flowers. Every grace of sentiment, every poetical term, 
which a false taste had rendered obsolete, was by him 
revived and made to grace his own ideas : and though 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 417 

many will condemn him as guilty of plagiarism, yet few 
will be able to withhold the tribute of their praise. 

The peculiar forte of Warton seems to have been in 
the sombre descriptive. The wild airy flights of a 
Spenser, the "chivalrous feats of barons bold," or the 
" cloister'd solitude," were the favorites of his mind. 
Of this his bent he informs us in the following lines : — 

" Through Pope's soft song though all the graces breathe, 
And happiest art adonis his attic page, 
Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow, 
As at the root of mossy crunk reclin'd, 
In magic Spenser's wildly warbled song 
I see deserted Una wander wide 
Through wasteful solitudes and lurid heaths, 
Weary, forlorn ; than where the fated * fair 
Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames, 
Launches in all the lustre of brocade, 
Amid the splendors of the laughing sun ; 
The yay description palls upon the sense 
And coldly strikes the mind with feeble bliss." 

Pleasures of Melanclioly. 

Warton's mind was formed for the grand and sub- 
lime. Were his imitations less verbal and less numer- 
ous, I should be led to imagine, that the peculiar beau- 
ties of his ftivorite authors had sunk so impressively 
into his mind, that he had unwittingly appropriated 
them as his own ; but they are in general such as to 
preclude the idea. 

To the metrical, and other intrinsic ornaments of 
style, he appears to have paid due attention. If we 
meet with an uncouth expression, we immediately per- 
ceive that it is peculiarly appropriate, and that no other 
term could have been made use of with so happy an 
effect. His poems abound with alliterative lines. In- 
deed, this figure seems to have been his favorite ; and 
he studiously seeks every opportunity to introduce it : 
however, it must be acknowledged, that his " daisy- 
dappled dale," &c. occur too frequently. 

* Belinda. Vide Pope's " Rape of the Lock." 

27 



41 3 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

The poem on which Warton's fame {as a poet) prin- 
cipally rests, is the " Pleasures of Melancholy,'' and (not- 
withstanding the perpetual recurrence of ideas which 
are borrowed from other poets) there are few pieces 
which 1 have perused with more exquisite gratification. 
The gloomy tints with which he overcasts his descrip- 
tions ; his highly figurative language; and, above all, 
the antique air which the poem wears, convey the most 
sublime ideas to the mind. 

Of the other pieces of this poet, some are excellent, 
and they all rise above mediocrity. In his sonnets he 
has succeeded wonderfully ; that written at Winslade, 
and the one to the river Lodon, are peculiarly beautiful, 
and That to Mr. Gray is most elegantly turned. The 
" Ode on the approach of Summer" is replete with 
genius and poetic fire : and even over the Birthday 
odes, which he wrote as poet laureate, his genius has 
cast energy and beauty. His humorous pieces and satires 
abound in wit : and, in short, taking him altogether, 
he is an ornament to our country and our language, 
and it is to be regretted, that the profusion with which 
he has made use of the beauties of other poets, should 
have given room for censure. 

I should have closed my short, and I fear jejune 
essay on Warton, but that I wished to hint to your truly 
elegant and acute Stamford correspondent, Octavius 
Gilchrist (whose future remarks on Y^arton's imitations 
I await with considerable impatience), that the passage 
in the " Pleasures of Melancholy " — 

" or yhostly shape, 



At distance seen, invites, with btck'ning hand, 
Thy lonesome steps," 

which he supposes to be taken from the following in 

"Comus," 

" Of calling shapes, and beck'ninj; shadows dire, 
And airy tongues that syllable men's names," 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 4 J 9 

is more probably taken from the commencement of 
Pope's elegy oh an unfortunate lady — 

" What beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade 
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ? " 

The original idea was possibly taken from "Comus " 
by Pope, from whom Warton, to all appearance, again 
borrowed it. 

Were the similarity of the passage in Gray to that in 
Warton less striking and verbal, I should be inclined to 
think it only a remarkable coincidence ; for Gray's 
biographer informs us, that he commenced his elegy in 
1742 and that it was completed in 1744, being the year 
which he particularly devoted to the Muses, though he 
did not " put the finishing stroke to it" until 1750. 
The "Pleasures of Melancholy" were published in 4to, 
in 1747. Therefore Gray might take his third stanza 
from Warton ; but it is rather extraordinary that the 
third stinza of a poem should be takea from another 
published five years after that poem was begun, and 
three after it was understood to be completed ; one cir- 
cumstance, however, seems to render the supposition of 
its being a plagiarism somewhat more probable, which 
is, that the stanza in question is not essential to the 
connection of the preceding and antecedent verses ; 
therefore it might have been added by Gray, when he 
put the " finishing stroke " to his piece in 1750. 



CURSORY REMARKS ON TRAGEDY. 

The pleasure which is derived from the representation 
of an affecting tragedy has often been the subject of 
inquiry among philosophical critics, as a singular phe- 
nomenon. That the mind should receive gratification 
from the excitement of those passions which are in them- 
selves painful, is really an extraordinary paradox, and 



420 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

it is the more inexplicable since, when the same means 
are employed to rouse the more pleasing affections, no 
adequate effect is produced. 

In order to solve this problem, many ingenious hy- 
potheses have been invented. The Abbe Du Bos tells 
us that the mind has such a natural antipathy to a 
state of listlessness and languor, as to render the transi- 
tion from it to a state of exertion, even though by 
rousing passions in themselves painful, as in the in- 
stance of a tragedy, a positive pleasure. Monsieur Fon- 
tenelle has given us a more satisfactorj^ account. He 
tells us that pleasure and pain, two sentiments so 
different in themselves, do not differ so much in their 
cause ; — that pleasure carried too far, becomes pain, 
and pain, a little moderated, becomes pleasure. Hence, 
that the pleasure we derive from tragedy is a pleasing 
sorrow, a modulated pain. David Hume, who has also 
written upon this subject, unites the two systems, with 
this addition, that the painful emotions excited by the 
repT2i entation of melancholy scenes are farther tempered, 
and the pleasure is proportionally heightened, by the 
eloquence displayed in the relation, the art shown in 
collecting the pathetic circumstances, and the judgment 
evinced in their happy disposition. 

But even now I do not conceive the difficulty to be 
satisfactorily done away. Admitting the postulatum 
which the Abbe Du Bos assumes, that languor is so 
disagreeable to the mind as to render its removal posi- 
tive pleasure, to be true ; yet, when we recollect, as 
Mr. Hume has before observed, that were the same 
objects of distress which give us pleasure in tragedy set 
before our eyes in reality, though they would effectually 
remove listlessness, they would excite the most unfeigned 
uneasiness, we shall hesitate in applying this solution 
in its full extent to the present subject. M. Fontenelle's 
reasoning is iiiucfy more conclusive ; yet I think he errs 
egregiously in his premises, if he means to imply that 
any modulation of pain is pleasing, because, in whatever 



■ I.. Willi 



HENRY KIRKE WHTIE. 421 

degree it may be, it is still pain, and remote from either 
ease or positive pleasure ; and if by moderated pain he 
means an uneasy sensation abated, though not totally 
banished, he is no less mistaken in the application of 
them to the subject before us. Pleasure may very well 
be conceived to be painful when carried to excess, 
because it there becomes exertion, and is inconvenient. 
We may also form some idea of a pleasure arising from 
moderated pain, or the transition from the disagreeable 
to the less disagreeable ; but this cannot in any wise be 
applied to the gratification we derive from a tragedy, 
for there no superior degree of pain is left for an inferior. 
As to Mr. Hume's addition of the pleasure we derive 
from the art of the poet, for the introduction of which 
he has written his whole dissertation on tragedy, it 
merits little consideration. The self-recollection neces- 
sary to render this art a source of gratification must 
weaken the illusion, and whatever weakens the illusion, 
diminishes the effect. 

In these systems it is taken for granted that all those 
passions are excited which are represented in the drama. 
This I conceive to have been the primary cause of error, 
for to me it seems very probable that the only passion 
or affection which is excited is that of sympathy, which 
partakes of the pleasing nature of pity and compassion, 
and includes in it so much as is pleasing of hope and 
apprehension, joy and grief. 

The pleasure we derive from the afflictions of a friend 
is proverbial— every person has felt, and wondered why 
he felt, something soothing in the participation of the 
sorrows of those dear to his heart ; and he might, with 
as much reason, have questioned why he was delighted 
with the melancholy scenes of tragedy. Both pleasures 
are equally singular ; they both arise from the same 
source. Both originate in sympathy. 

It would seem natural that an accidental spectator 
of a cause in a court of justice, with which he is per- 
fectly unacquainted, would remain an uninterested 



422 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

auditor of what was going forward. Experience tells 
us, however, the exact contrary. He immediately, even 
before he is well acquainted with the merits of the case, 
espouses one side of the. question, to which he uniformly 
adheres, participates in all its advantages, and sympa- 
thizes in its success. There is no denying that the in- 
terest this man takes in the business is a source of 
pleasure to him ; but we cannot suppose one of the par- 
ties in the cause, though his interest must be infinitely 
more lively, to feel an equal pleasure, because the 
painful passions are in him really roused, while in the 
other sympathy alone is excited which is in itself pleasing. 
It is pretty much the same with the spectator of a 
tragedy. And if the sympathy is the more pleasing, it 
is because the actions are so much the more calculated 
to entrap the attention, and the object so much the 
more worthy. The pleasure is heightened also in both 
instances by a kind of intuitive recollection, which 
never forsakes the spectator ; that no bad consequences 
will result to him from the action he is surveying. 
This recollection is the more predominant in the spec- 
tator of a tragedy, as it is impossible in any case totally 
to banish from his memory that the scenes are fictitious 
and illusive. In real life we always advert to futurity, 
and endeavor to draw inferences of the probable con- 
sequences ; but the moment we take off our minds from 
what is passing on the stage to reasonings thereupon 
the illusion is dispelled, and it again recurs that it is all 
fiction. 

If we compare the degrees of pleasure we derive from 
the perusal of a novel and the representation of a trage- 
dj r , we shall observe a wonderful disparity. In both 
we feel an interest, in both sympathy is excited. But 
in the one, things are merely related to us as having 
passed, which it is not attempted to persuade us ever did 
in reality happen, and from which, therefore, we never 
can deceive ourselves into the idea that any conse- 
quences whatever will result ; in the other, on the con- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 423 



trary, the actions themselves pass before our eyes ; we 
are not tempted to ask ourselves whether they did ever 
happen ; we see them happen, we are witnesses of them, 
and were it not- for the meliorating circumstances be- 
fore mentioned, the sympathy would become so powerful 
as to be in the highest degree painful. 

In tragedy, therefore, everything which can strength- 
en the illusion should be introduced, for there are a 
thousand drawbacks on the effect which it is impossible 
to remove, which have always so great a force, as to 
put it out of the power of the poet to excite sympathy in 
a too painful degree. Everything that is improbable, 
everything which is out of the common course of nature 
should, for this reason, be avoided, as nothing will so 
forcibly remind the spectator of the unrealness of the 
illusion. 

It is a mistaken idea that we sympathize sooner with 
the distresses of kings and illustrious personages than 
with those of common life. Men are., in fact, more in- 
clined to commiserate the sufferings of their equals than 
of those whom they cannot but regard, rather with awe 
than pity, as superior beings, and to take an inter- 
est in incidents which might have happened to them- 
selves, sooner than in those remote from their own rank 
and habits. It is for this reason that iEschylus cen- 
sures Euripides for introducing his kings in rags, as if 
they were more to be compassionated than other men. 

flpajrov figv roue ftaftiXebovraq pdy.la;i7U<J%it)v , tv iXseivol 
Tolq d>0f)(i>7t<uq <pafaovT elvat. 

Some will, perhaps, imagine that it is in the power 
of the poet to excite our sympathy in too powerful a 
degree, because at the representation of certain scenes, 
the spectators are frequently affected so as to make them 
shriek out with terror. But this is not sympathy ; it is 
horror, it is disgust, and is only witnessed when some 
act is committed on the stage so cruel and bloody, as to 



424 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

make it impossible to contemplate it even in idea with- 
out horror. 

" Nee pueros coram populo Medea trucidet, 
Aut huruana palam coquat exta nefarius Atreus." 

Hot. Ars Poet., 1. 185. 

It is for this reason, also, that many fine German 
dramas cannot be brought on the English stage, sucli 
as the Robbers of Schiller, and the Adelaide of Wulfin- 
gen, by Kotzebue ; they are too horrible to be read 
without violent emotions, and Horace will tell you what 
an immense difference there is in point of effect between 
a relation and a representation. 

" Segnius irritant amnios demissa per aurera, 
Quain quae sunt oeulis subjecta fidelibus, et qu» 
lpsi sibi trudit spectator." 

Ars Poet., 1. 180. 

I shall conclude these desultory remarks, strung to- 
gether at random, without order or connection, by ob- 
serving what little foundation there is for the general 
outcry in the literary world against the prevalence of 
German dramas on our stage. Did they not possess 
uncommon merit, they would not meet with such gen- 
eral approbation. Fashion has but a partial influence, 
but they have drawn tears from an audience in a barn 
as well as in a theatre royal ; they have been welcomed 
with plaudits in every little market town in the three 
kingdoms as well as in the metropolis. Nature speaks 
but one language ; she is alike intelligible to the peas- 
ant and the man of letters, the tradesman and the man 
of fashion. While the Muse of Germany shall continue 
to produce such plays as the Stranger and Lover's 
Vows,* who will not rejoice that translation is able to 
naturalize her efforts in our language ? 

* I speak of these plays only as adapted to our stage by the elegant 
pens of Mr. Thompton and Mrs. lnchbald. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 4 2 5 



MELANCHOLY HOURS — 



-" There is a mood 



(I sing not to the vacant and the young), 

There is a kindly mood of Melancholy, 

That wings the soul and points her to the skies." 

Dyjsr. 

Philosophers have divested themselves of their 
natural apathy, and poets have risen above themselves, 
in descanting on the pleasures of Melancholy. There 
is no mind so gross, no understanding so uncultivated, 
as to be incapable, at certain moments, and amid cer- 
tain combinations, of feeling that sublime influence 
upon the spirits, which steals the soul from the petty 
anxieties of the world, 

" And tits it to hold converse with the gods." 

I must confess, if such there be who never felt the 
divine abstraction, I envy them not their insensibility. 
For my own part, it is from the indulgence of this sooth- 
ing power that I derive the most exquisite of gratifica- 
tions. At the calm hour of moonlight, amid all the 
sublime serenity, the dead stillness of the night, or 
when the howling storm rages in the heavens, the rain 
pelts on my roof, and the winds whistle through the 
crannies of my apartment, I feel the divine mood of 
melancholy upon me ; I imagine myself placed upon 
an eminence, above the crowds who pant below in the 
dusty tracks of wealth and honor. The black cata- 
logue of crimes and of vice, the sad tissue of wretchedness 
and woe, passes in review before me, and I look down 
upon man with an eye of pity and commiseration. 
Though the scenes which I survey be mournful, and 
the ideas they excite equally sombre ; though the tears 
gush as I contemplate them, and my heart feels heavy 
with the. sorrowful emotions they inspire, yet are they 



426 Fix USE COMPOSITIONS OF 



not accompanied with sensations of the purest and 
most ecstatic bliss. 

It is to the spectator alone that melancholy is for- 
bidding ; in herself she is soft and interesting, and capa- 
ble of affording pure and unalloyed delight. Ask the 
lover why he muses by the side of the purling brook, or 
plunges into the deep gloom cf the forest. Ask the un- 
fortunate why he seeks the still shades of solitude, or 
the man who feels the pangs of disappointed ambition, 
why he retires into the silent walks of seclusion, and 
he will tell you that he derives a pleasure therefrom 
which nothing else can impart. It is the delight of 
melancholy ; but the melancholy of these beings is as 
far removed from that of the philosopher as are the 
narrow and contracted complaints of selfishness from 
the mournful regrets of expansive philanthropy ; as are 
the desponding intervals of insanity from the occasional 
depressions of benevolent sensibility. 

The man who has attained that calm equanimity 
which qualifies him to look down upon the petty evils 
of life with indifference, who can so far conquer the 
weakness of nature as to consider the suffering of the 
individual of little moment, when put in competition 
with the welfare of the community, is alone the true 
philosopher. His melancholy is not excited by the ret- 
rospect of his own misfortunes ; it has its rise from the 
contemplation of the miseries incident to life and the 
evils which obtrude themselves upon society and inter- 
rupt the harmony of natui e. It would be abrogating too 
much merit to myself to assert that I have a just claim 
to the title of a philosopher, as it is here defined ; or 
to say that the speculations of my melancholy hours are 
equally disinterested ; be this as it may, I have deter- 
mined to present my solitary effusions to the public : 
they will at least have the merit of novelty to recom- 
mend them, and may possibly, in some measure, be in- 
strumental in the melioration of the human heart or 
the correction of false prepossessions. This is the height 



1 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 427 

of my ambition : this once attained, and my end will be 
fully accomplished. One thing I can safely promise, 
though far from being the coinages of a heart at ease, 
they will contain neither the querulous captiousness of 
misfortune nor the bitter taunts of misanthropy. So- 
ciety is a chain of which I am merely a link ; all men 
are my associates in error, and though some may have 
gone farther in the ways of guilt than myself, yet it is 
not in me to sit in judgment upon them : it is mine to 
treat them rather in pity than in anger, to lament their 
crimes, and to weep over their sufferings. As these 
papers will be the amusement of those hours of relaxa- 
tion when the mind recedes from the vexations of busi- 
ness, and sinks into itself for a moment of solitary ease, 
rather than the efforts of literary leisure, the reader 
will not expect to find in them unusual elegance of 
language or studied propriety of style. In the short and 
necessary intervals of cessation from the anxieties of an 
irksome employment, one finds little time to be solicit- 
ous about expression. If, therefore, the fervor of a 
glowing mind express itself in too warm and luxuriant 
a manner for the cold ear of dull propriety, let the fas- 
tidious critic find a selfish pleasure in descrying it. To 
criticism melancholy is indifferent. If learning cannot 
be better employed than in declaiming against the de- 
fects while it is insensible to the beauties of a perform- 
ance, well may we exclaim Avith the poet : — 

Q eu/j.£<;7]q ayvota cwc dfj.co/x6<; rtq el 
Orav ol ffu 00 syoiq ovrwq <tou/. ayvnei. 

w. 



428 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— No. II. 

" But(wel-a-day) who loves the Muses now ? 
Or helpes the climber of the sacred hyll ? 
None leane to them, but strive to disalow 
All heavenly dewes the goddesses distill." 

Wm. Broivne's Shepheard's Pipe. Eg. 5. 

It is a melancholy reflection, and a reflection which 
often sinks heavily on my soul, that the sons of Genius 
generally seem predestined to encounter the rudest 
storms of adversity, to struggle, unnoticed, with poverty 
and misfortune. The annals of the woild present us^ 
with many corroborations of this remark ; and, alas ! 
who can tell how many unhappy beings, who might 
have shone with distinguished lustre among the stars 
which illumine our hemisphere, may have sunk unknown 
beneath the pressure of untoward circumstances ; who 
knows how many may have shrunk, with all the ex- 
quisite sensibility of genius, from the rude and riotous 
discord of the world into the peaceful slumbers of death- 
Among the number of those whose talents might have 
elevated them to the first rank of eminence, but who 
have been overwhelmed with the accumulated ills of 
poverty and misfortune, I do not hesitate to rank a 
young man whom I once accounted it my greatest hap- 
piness to be able to call my friend. 

Charles Wanely was the only son of an humble 
vilage rector, who just lived to give him a liberal educa- 
tion, and then left him, unprovided for and unprotected, 
to struggle through the world as well as he could. 
With a heart glowing with the enthusiasm of poetry 
and romance, with a sensibility the most exquisite, and 
with an indignant pride which swelled in his veins, and 
told him he was a man, my friend found himself cast 
upon the wide world, at the age of sixteen, an adven- 
turer, without fortune and without connection. As his 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 429 

independent spirit could not brook the idea of being a 
burthen to those whom his father had taught him to 
consider only as allied by blood, and not by affection, 
he looked about him for a situation which could ensure 
to him, by his own exertions, an honorable competence. 
It was not long before such a situation offered, and 
Charles precipitately articled himself to an attorney, 
without giving himself time to consult his own inclina- 
tions, or the disposition of his master. The transition 
from Sophocles and Euripides, Theocritus and Ovid, to 
Finche and Wood, Coke and Wynne, was striking and 
difficult ; but Charles applied himself with his wonted 
ardor to his new study, as considering it not only his 
interest but his duty so to do. It was not long, however, 
before he discovered that he disliked the law, that he 
disliked his situation, and that he despised his master. 
The fact was, my friend had many mortifications to 
endure which his haughty soul could ill brook. The 
attorney to whom he was articled was one of those nar- 
row-minded beings who consider wealth as alone entitled 
to respect. He had discovered that his clerk was very 
poor and very destitute of friends, and thence he very 
naturally concluded, that he might insult him with 
impunity. It appears, however, that he was mistaken 
in his calculations. I one night remarked that my 
friend was unusually thoughtful. I ventured to ask 
him whether he had met with anything particular to 
ruffle his spirits. He looked at me for some moments 
significantly, then, as if roused to fury by the recollec- 
tion — " I have," said he, vehemently, " I have, I have ! 
He has insulted me grossly, and I will bear it no longer." 
He now walked up and down the room with visible 
emotion. Presently he sat down. He seemed more 
composed. "My friend," said he, "I have endured 
much from this man. I conceived it my duty to forbear, 
but I have forborne until forbearance is blamable, and, 
by the Almighty, I will never again endure what I have 
endured this day ! But not only this man ; every one 



43 o PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

thinks he may treat me with contumely, because I am 
poor and friendless. But I am a man, and will no 
longer tamely submit to be the sport of fools and the 
football of caprice. In this spot of earth, though it 
gave me birth, I can never taste of ease. Here I must 
be miserable. The principal end of man is to arrive at 
happiness. Here I can never attain it ; and here, there- 
fore I will no longer remain. My obligations to the 
rascal who calls himself my master are< auneei.ed by his 
abuse of the authority I rashly placed in his hands. I 
have no relations to bind me to this particular place." 
The tears started in his eyes as he spoke. " I have no 
tender ties to bid me stay, and why do I stay ? The 
world is all before me. My inclination leads me to 
travel; I will pursue that inclination: and, perhaps, 
in a strange land I may find that repose which is denied 
to me in the place of my birth. My finances, it is true, 
are ill able to support the expenses of travelling : but 
what then — Goldsmith, my friend! " with rising enthu- 
siasm, " Goldsmith traversed Europe on foot, and I am 
as hardy as Goldsmith. Yes, I will go, and, perhaps, 
ere long, I may sit me down on some towering moun- 
tain, and exclaim with him, while a hundred realms lie 
in perspective before me, 

"Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine." 

It was in vain I entreated him to reflect maturely 
ere he took so bold a step ; he was deaf to my impor- 
tunities, and the next morning I received a letter in- 
forming me of his departure. He was observed about 
sun-rise, sitting on the stile at the top of an eminence, 
which commanded a prospect of the surrounding coun- 
try, pensively looking towards the village. I could 
divine his emotions on thus casting, probably, a last 
look on his native place. The neat white parsonage 
house, with the honeysuckle mantling on its wall. I 
knew would receive his last glance ; and the image of 
his father would present itself to his mind, with a mel- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 431 

ancholy pleasure, as he was thus hastening, a solitary 
individual, to plunge himself into the crowds of the 
world, deprived of that fostering hand which would 
otherwise have been his support and guide. 

From this period Charles Wanely was never heard of 

at L ; and as his few relations cared little about 

hiiu, in a short time it was almost forgotten that such a 
being had ever been in existence. 

About five years had elapsed from this period, when 
my occasions led me to the Continent. I Avill confess, I 
was not without a romantic hope that I might again 
meet with my lost friend ; and that often, with that 
idea, I scrutinized the features of the passengers. One 
fine moonlight night, as I was strolling down the grand 
Italian Strada di Toledo, at Naples, I observed a crowd 
assembled round a man, who, with impassioned ges- 
tures, seemed to be vehemently declaiming to the mul- 
titude. It was one of the Improvisatori, who recite 
extempore verses in the streets of Naples, *f or what money 
they can colleot from the hearers. I stopped to listen to 
the man's metrical romance, and had remained in the 
attitude of attention some time, when happening to 
turn round, I beheld a person very shabbily dressed 
steadfastly gazing at me. The moon shone full in his 
face. I thought his features were familiar to me. He 
was pale and emaciated, and his countenance bore 
marks of the deepest dejection. Yet, amidst all these 
changes, I thought I recognized Charles Wanely. I 
stood stupefied with surprise. My senses nearly failed me. 
On recovering myself, I looked again, but he had left the 
spot the moment he found himself observed. I darted 
through the crowd, and ran every way which I thought 
he could have gone, but it was all to no purpose. No- 
body knew him. Nobody had ever seen such a person. 
The two following days I renewed my inquiries, and at 
last discovered the lodgings where a man of his djscrip- 
tion had resided. But he had left Naples the morning 
after his form had struck my eyes. I found he gained 



432 rROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

a subsistence by drawing rude figures in chalks, and 
vending them among the peasantry. I could no longer 
doubt it was my friend, and immediately perceived that 
his haughty spirit could not bear to be recognized in 
such degrading circumstances by one who had known 
him in better days. Lamenting the misguided notions 
which had thus again thrown him from me, I left Naples, 
now grown hateful to my sight, and embarked for Eng- 
land. It is now nearly twenty-two years since this ren- 
counter, during which period he has not been heard of : 
and there can be but little doubt that this unfortunate 
young man has found in some remote corner of the con- 
tinent'an obscure and an unlamented grave. 

Thus, those talents which were formed to do honor 
to human nature, and to the country which gave them 
birth, have been nipped in the bud by the frosts of pov- 
erty and scorn, and their unhappy possessor lies in an 
unknown and nameless tomb, who might, under hap- 
pier circumstances, have risen to the highest pinnacle 
of ambition and renown. W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— No. III. 

" Few know that elegance of soul refin'd 
Whose soft sensation feels a quicker joy 
From melancholy's scenes, than the dull pride 
Of tasteless splendor and magnificence 
Can e'er afford." 

Warton's Melancholy . 

Ilf one of my midnight rambles down the side of the 
Trent, the river which waters the place of my nativity, 
as I was musing on the various evils which darken the 
life of man, and which have their rise in the malevo- 
lence and ill-nature of his fellows, the sound of a flute 
from an adjoining copse attracted my attention. The 
tune it played was mournful yet soothing. It was suited 
to the solemnity of the hour. As the distant notes 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 433 



came wafted at intervals on my ear, now with gradual 
swell, then dying away on the silence of the night, I 
felt the tide of indignation subside within me, and give 
place to the solemn calm of repose. I listened for some 
time in breathless ravishment. The , : train ceased, yet 
the sounds still vibrated on my heart, and the visions 
of bliss which they excited still glowed on my imagina- 
tion. 1 was then standing in one of my favorite re- 
treats. It was a little alcove, overshadowed with wil- 
lows, and a mossy seat at the back invited to -est. I 
laid myself listlessly on the bank. The Trent murmured 
softly at my feet, and the willows sighed as they waved 
over my head. It was the holy moment of repose, and 
I soon sunk into a deep sleep. The operations of fancy 
in a slumber, induced by a combination of circum- 
stances so powerful and uncommon, could not fail to be 
■wild and romantic in the extreme. Methought I fourd 
myself in an extensive area, filled with an immense con- 
course of people. At one end was a throne of adamant, 
on which sat a female, in whose aspect I immediately 
recognized a divinity. She was clad in a garb of azm e ; 
on her forehead she bore a sun, whose splendor the 
eyes of many were unable to bear, and whose rays il- 
lumined the whole space, and penetrated into the deep- 
est recesses of darkness. The aspect of the goddess at a 
distance was forbidding, but on a nearer approach it 
was mild and engaging. Her eyes were blue and pierc- 
ing, and there was a fascination in her smile which 
charmed as if by enchantment. The air of intelligence 
which beamed in her look made the beholder shrink 
into himself with the consciousness of inferiority ; yet 
the affability of her deportment, and the simplicity and 
gentleness of her manners, soon reassured him, while 
the bewitching softness which she could at times as- 
sume won his permanent esteem. On inquiry of a by- 
stander who it was that sat on the throne, and what 
was the occasion of so uncommon an assembly, he in- 
formed me that it w^as the goddess of wisdom, who had 

28 



434 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

at last succeeded in regaining the dominion of the earth, 
which folly had so long usurped. That she sat there in 
her judicial capacity, in order to try the merits of many 
who were supposed to be the secret emissaries of Folly. 
In this way 1 understood Envy and Malevolence had been 
sentenced to perpetual banishment, though several of 
their adherents yet remained among men, whose minds 
were too gross to be irradiated with the light of wisdom. 
One trial I understood was just ended, and another sup- 
posed delinquent was about to be put to the bar. With 
much curiosity I hurried forwards to survey the figure 
which now approached. She was habited in black, and 
veiled to the waist. Her pace was solemn and majestic, 
yet in every movement was a winning gracefulness. As 
she approached to the bar I got a nearer view of her, 
when what was my astonishment to recognize in her the 
person of my favorite goddess, Melancholy. Amazed 
that she Avhom i had always looked upon as the sister 
and companion of Wisdom should be brought to trial 
as an emissary and an adherent of Folly", 1 waited in 
mute impatience for the accusation which could be 
framed against her. On looking towards the centre of 
the area, I was much surprised to see a bustling little 
Cit of my acquaintance, who, by his hemming and 
clearing, I concluded was going to make the charge. 
As he was a self-important little fellow, fall of conse- 
quence and business, and totally incapable of all the 
finer emotions of the soul, I could not conceive what 
ground of complaint he could have against Melancholy, 
who, I was persuaded, would never have designed to 
take up her residence for a moment in his breast. 
When I recollected, however, that he had some sparks 
of ambition in his composition, and that he was an en- 
vious, carping little mortal, who had formed the design 
of shouldering himself into notice by decrying the de- 
fects of others, while he was insensible to his own. my 
amazement and my apprehensions vanished as I per- 
ceived he only wanted to make a display of his own tal- 



irENRY KIRKE WHITE. 435 

ents, in doing which I did not fear his making himself 
sufficiently ridiculous. 

After a good deal of irrelevant circumlocution, he 
boldly began the accusation of Melancholy. I shall not 
dwell upon many absurd and many invidious parts of 
his speech, nor upon the many blunders in the misap- 
plication of words, such as " deduce " for '■'detract,''' 
and others of a similar nature, which my poor friend 
committed in the course of his harangue, but shall only 
dwell upon the material parts of the charge. 

He represented the prisoner as the offspring of Idle- 
ness and Discontent, who was at all times a sulky, sul- 
len, and " eminently useless" member of the commu- 
nity, and not unfrequently a very dangerous one. He 
declared it to be his opinion, that in case she were to be 
suffered to prevail, mankind would soon become " too 
idle to go," and would all lie down and perish through 
indolence, or through forgetting that sustenance was 
necessary for the preservation of existence : and con- 
cluded with painting the horrors which would attend 
such a depopulation of the earth, in such colors as made 
many weak minds regard the goddess with fear and ab- 
horrence. 

Having concluded, the accused was called upon for 
her defence. She immediately, with a graceful gesture, 
lifted up the veil which concealed her face, and discov- 
ered a countenance so soft, so lovely, and so sweetly ex- 
pressive, as to'strike the beholders with involuntary ad- 
miration, and which, at one glance, overturned all the 
flimsy sophistry of my poor friend the citizen ; and when 
the silver tones of .her voice were heard, the murmurs 
which until then had continually arisen from the crowd, 
were hushed to a dead still, and the whole multitude 
stood transfixed in breathless attention. As near as I 
can recollect, these were the words in which she ad- 
dressed herself to the throne of wisdom. 

M I shall not deign to give a direct answer to the 
various insinuations which have been thrown out against 



43 6 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

me by my accuser. Let it suffice that I declare my true 
history, in opposition to that which has been so artfully 
fabricated to my disad vantage. In that early age of 
the world when mankind followed the peaceful avoca- 
tions of a pastoral life only, and contentment and har- 
mony reigned in every vale, I was not known among 
men ; but when, in process of time, Ambition and Vice, 
with their attendant evils, were sent down as a scourge 
to the human race, I made my appearance. I am the 
offspring of Misfortune and Virtue, and was sent by 
Heaven to teach my parents how to support their afflic- 
tions with magnanimity. As I grew up, I became the 
intimate friend of the wisest among men. I was the 
bosom friend of Plato and other illustrious sages of an- 
tiquity, and was then often known by the name of 
Philosophy, though, in present times, when that title is 
usurped by mere makers of experiments and inventors 
of blacking cakes, I am only known by the appellation 
of Melancholy. So far from being a discontented disposi- 
tion, my very essence is pious and resigned contentment. 
I teach my votaries to support every vicissitude of for- 
tune with calmness and fortitude. It is mine to subdue 
the stormy propensities of passion and vice, to foster and 
encourage the principles of benevolence and philanthro- 
py, and to cherish and bring to perfection the seeds of vir- 
tue and wisdom. Though feared and hated by those who, 
like my accuser, are ignorant of my nature, I am court- 
ed and cherished by all the truly wise, the good, and 
the great ; the poet woos me as the goddess of inspira- 
tion ; the true philosopher acknowledges himself in- 
debted to me for his most expansive views of human 
nature ; the good man owes to me that hatred of the 
wrong and love of the right, and that disdain for the 
consequences which may result from the performance of 
his duties, which keeps him good ; and the religious 
flies to me for the only clear and unencumbered view of 
the attributes and perfections of the Deity. So far from 
being idle, my mind is ever on the wing in the regions 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 437 

of fancy, or that true philosophy which opens the book 
of human nature, and raises the soul above the evils in- 
cident to life. If I am useless, in the same degree were 
Plato and Socrates, Locke and Paley useless j it is 
true that my immediate influence is confined, but its 
effects are disseminated by means of literature over 
every age and nation, and mankind, in every genera- 
tion and in every clime, may look to me as their remote 
illuminator, the original spring 01 the principal intel- 
lectual benefits they possess. But as there is no good 
without its attendant evil, so I have an elder sister, 
called Frenzy, for whom I have often been mistaken, 
who sometimes follows close on my steps, and to her I 
owe much of the obloquy which is attached to my name, 
though the puerile accusation which has just been 
brought against me, turns on points which apply more 
exclusively to myself." 

She ceased, and a dead pause ensued. The multi- 
tude seemed struck with the fascination of her utterance 
and gesture, and the sounds of her voice still seemed to 
vibrate on every ear. The attention of the assembly, 
however, was soon recalled to the accuser, and their in- 
dignation at his baseness rose to such a height as to 
threaten general tumult, when the goddess of wisdom 
arose, and waving her hand for silence, beckoned the 
prisoner to her, placed her on her right hand, and with 
a sweet smile acknowledged her for her old companion 
and friend. She then turned to the accuser, with a 
frown of severity so terrible, that I involuntarily started 
with terror from my poor misguided friend, and with 
the violence of the start I awoke, and instead of the 
throne of the goddess of wisdom, and the vast assembly 
of people, beheld the first rays of the morning peeping 
over the eastern cloud, and instead of the loud murmurs 
of the incensed multitude, heard nothing but the soft 
gurgling of the river at my feet, and the rustling wing 
of the skylark, who was now beginning his first matin 
song. \y. 



43 8 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— No. IV. 

Zy.o-TjGatizvoq euptffzov auoatiwq av aXXwq ouroq diaizpa^a- 
fievoc, — 

— ISOCB. 

The world has often heard of fortune-hunters, legacy- 
hunters, popularity-hunters, and hunters of various de- 
scriptions — one diversity, however, of this very extensive 
species has hitherto eluded public animadversion ; I 
allude to the class of friend-hunters ; men who make it 
the business of their lives to acquire friends, in the hope, 
through their influence, to arrive at some desirable 
point of ambitious eminence. Of all the mortifications 
and anxieties to which mankind voluntarily subject 
themselves, from the expectation of future beneiit, mere 
are, perhaps, none more galling, none more insupport- 
able, than those attendant on friend-making. SIiow a 
man that you court his society, and it is a signal for 
him to treat you with neglect and contumely. Humor 
his passions, and he desj)ises you as a sycophant. Pay 
implicit deference to his opinions, and he laughs at you 
for your folly, In all he views you with contempt, as 
the creature of his will, as the slave of his caprice. I 
remember I once solicited the acquaintance and coveted 
the friendship of one man, and, thank God, I can yet 
say (and I hope on my death-bed I shall be able to say 
the same), of oxly one man. 

Germanicus was a character of considerable eminence 
in the literary world. He had the reputation not only 
of an enlightened understanding and refined taste but 
of openness of heart and goodness of disposition. His 
name always carried with it that weight and authority 
which are due to learning and genius in every situation. 
His manners were polished and his conversation elegant. 
In short, he possessed every qualification which could 
render him an enviable addition to the circle of every 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 439 

man's friends. With such a character, as I was then 
very young, I could not fail to feel an ambition of be- 
coming acquainted, when the opportunity offered, and 
in a short time we were upon terms of familiarity. To 
ripen this familiarity into friendship, as far as the most 
awkward diffidence would permit, was my strenuous 
endeavour. If his opinion contradicted mine, I imme- 
diately, without reasoning on the subject, conceded the 
point to him, as a matter of course that he must be 
right, and by consequence that I must be wrong. Did 
he utter a witticism, I was sure to laugh ; and if he 
looked grave, though nobody could tell why, it was mine 
to groan. By thus conforming myself to his humor, I 
flattered myself I was making some progress in his good 
graces, but I was soon undeceived. A man seldom cares 
much for that which cost him no pains to procure. 
Whether Germanicus found me a troublesome visitor, or 
whether he was really displeased with something I had 
unwittingly said or done, certain it is, that when I met 
him one day, in company with persons of apparent figure, 
he had lost all recollection of my features. I called 
upon him, but Germanicus was not at home. Again 
and again I gave a hesitati ng knock at the great man's 
door— all wa s to no purpose. He was still not at home. 
The sly meaning, however, which was couched in the 
sneer of the servant the last time, that, half ashamed of 
my errand, I made my inquiries at his house, convinced 
me of what I ought to have known before— that Ger- 
manicus was at home to all the world save me. I be- 
lieve, with all my seeming humility, I am a confounded 
proud fellow at bottom ; my rage at this discovery, 
therefore, may be better conceived than described. Ten 
thousand curses did I imprecate on the foolish vanity 
which led me to solicit the friendship of my superior, 
and again and again did I vow down eternal vengeance 
on my head, if I ever more condescended thus to court 
the acquaintance of man. To this resolution I believe 
I shall ever adhere. If I am destined to make any pro- 




■ ■■' ■" ' I ' t ' " 

440 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



gress in the world, it will be by my own individual exer- 
tions. As I elbow my way through the crowded vale of 
life, I will never, in any emergency, call on my selfish 
neighbor for assistance. If my strength give way be- 
neath the pressure of calamity, I shall sink without his 
whine of hypocritical condolence, and if I do sink, let 
him kick me into a ditch and go about his business. I 
asked not his assistance while living— it will be of no 
service to me when dead. 

Believe me, reader, whoever thou mayest be, there 
are few among mortals whose friendship, when ac- 
quired, will repay thee for the meanness of solicitation. 
If a man voluntarily holds out his hand to thee, take it 
with caution. If thou find him honest, be not back- 
ward to receive his proffered assistance, and be anxious, 
when occasion shall require, to yield to him thine own. 
A real friend is the most valuable blessing a man can 
possess, and, mark me, it is by far the most rare. It is 
a black swan. But, whatever thou mayest do, solicit 
not friendship. If thou art young, and would make 
thy way in the world, bind thyself a seven years' ap- 
prenticeship to a city tallow-chandler, and thou mayest 
in time come to be lord mayor. Many people have 
made their fortunes at a tailor's board. Perriwig 
makers have been known to buy their country seats, 
and bellows-menders have started their curricles ; but 
seldom, very seldom, has the man who placed his de- 
pendence on the friendship of his fellow men arrived at 
even the shadow of the honor to which, through that 
medium, he aspired. Nay, even if thou shouldst find a 
friend ready to lend thee a helping hand, the moment, 
by his assistance, thou hast gained some little eminence, 
he will be the first to hurl thee down to thy primitive, 
and now, perhaps, irremediable obscurity. 

Yet I see no more reason for complaint on the ground 
of the fallacy -of human friendship, than I do for any 
other ordinance of nature, which may appear to run 
counter to our happiness. Man is naturally a selfish 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 44 1 



creature, and it is only by the aid of philosophy that he 
can so far conquer the defects of his being as to be capa- 
ble of disinterested friendship. Who, then, can expect 
to find that benign disposition which manifests itself in 
acts of disinterested benevolence and spontaneous affec- 
tion, a common visitor ? Who can preach philosophy 
to the mob ? * 

The recluse, who does not easily assimilate with the 
herd of mankind, and whose manners with difficulty 
bend to the peculiarities of others, is not likely to have 
many real friends. His enjoyments, therefore, must be 
solitary, lone, and melancholy. His only friend is him- 
self. As he sits immersed in reverie by his midnight fire, 
and hears without the wild gusts of wind fitfully career- 
ing over the plain, he listens sadly attentive ; and as 
the varied intonations of the howling blast articulate to 
his enthusiastic ear, he converses with the spirits of the 
departed, while, between each dreary pause of the storm, 
he holds solitary communion with himself. Such is the 
social intercourse of the recluse ; yet he frequently feels 
the soft consolations of friendship. A heart formed for 
the gentler emotions of the soul, often feels as strong an 
interest for what are called brutes, as most bipeds affect 
to feel for each other. Montaigne had his cat ; I have 
read of a man whose only friend was a large spider ; and 
Trenck, in his dungeon, would sooner have lost his right 
hand, than the poor little mouse, which, grown con- 
fident with indulgence, used to beguile the tedious 
hours of imprisonment with its gambols. For my own 
part, I believe my dog, who, at this moment, seated on 
his hinder legs, is wistfully surveying me, as if he was 
conscious of all that is passing in my mind : — my dog, 
I say, is as sincere, and, whatever the world may say, 

*By the word mob here, the author does not mean to include merely 
the lower classes. In the present acceptation, it takes in a great part of 
the mob of quality : men who are either too ignorant, or too much taken 
up with base and grovelling pursuits, to have room for any of the more 
amiable affections. 

i__i_ii imiii— iMiifrwmii'UHHi iiiiii ' i 



442 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

nearly as dear a friend as any I possess ; and, when I 
shall receive that summons which may not now be far 
distant, he will whine a funeral requiem over my grave, 
more piteously than all the hired mourners of Chris- 
tendom. Well, well, poor Bob has had a kind master 
in me, and, for my own part, I verily believe there are 
few things on this earth I shall leave with more regret 
than the faithful companion of the happy hours of my 
infancy. 

W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— No. V. 

" Un sonnet sans defaut vaut seul un long poeme, 
Mais en vain mille auteurs y pensent arriver: 
A peine * * * * 

* * peut-on admirer deux ou trois entre mille." 

BOILEAl T .~ 

There is no species of poetry which is better adapted 
to the taste of a melancholy man than the sonnet. 
While its brevity precludes the possibility of its becom- 
ing tiresome, and its full and expected close accords 
well with his dejected and perhaps somewhat languid 
tone of mind, its elegiac delicacy and querimonious 
plaintiveness come in pleasing consonance with his 
feelings. 

This elegant little poem has met with a peculiar fate 
in this country : half a century ago it was regarded as 
utterly repugnant to the nature of our language, while 
at present it is the popular vehicle of the most admired 
sentiments of our best living poets. This remarkable 
mutation in the opinions of our countrymen may, how- 
ever, be accounted for on plain and common principles. 
The earlier English sonneteers confined themselves in 
general too strictly to the Italian model, as well in the 
disposition of the rhymes as in the cast of the ideas. A 
sonnet with them was only another wore 1 for some meta- 
physical conceit, or clumsy antithesis, contained in four- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 443 



teen harsh lines, full of obscure inversions and ill-man- 
aged expletives. They bound themselves down to a 
pattern which was in itself faulty, and they met with 
the common fate of servile imitators in retaining all the 
defects of their original, while they suffered the beauties 
to escape in the process. Their sonnets are like copies 
of a bad picture : however accurately copied, they are 
still bad. Our contemporaries, on the contrary, have 
given scope to their genius in the sonnet without restraint, 
sometimes even growing licentious in their liberty, set- 
ting at defiance those rules which form its distinguishing 
peculiarity, and, under the name of sonnet, soaring or 
falling into ode or elegy. Their compositions, of course, 
are impressed with all those excellences which would 
have marked their respective productions in any similar 
walk of poetry. 

It has never been disputed that the sonnet first ar- 
rived at celebrity in the Italian ; a language which, as 
it abounds in a musical similarity of terminations, is 
more eminently qualified to give ease and elegance to 
the legitimate sonnet, restricted as it is to stated and 
frequently-recurring rhymes of the same class. As to 
the inventors of this little structure of verse, they are 
involved in impenetrable obscurity. Some authors 
have ascribed it singly to Gruitone D'Arezzo, an Italian 
poet of the thirteenth century, but they have no sort of 
authority to adduce in support of their assertions. Argu- 
ing upon probabilities, with some slight coincidental 
corroborations, I should be inclined to maintain that its 
origin may be referred to an earlier period ; that it may 
be looked for amongst the Provencals, who left scarcely 
any combination of metrical sounds unattempted ; and 
who. delighting as they did in sound and jingle, might 
very possibly strike out this harmonious stanza of four- 
teen lines. Be this as it may, Dante and Petrarch 
were the first poets who rendered it popular, and to 
Dante and Petrarch therefore we must resort for its 
required rules. 



444 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

In an ingenious paper of Dr. Drake's " Literary 
Hours," a book which I have read again and again with 
undiminished pleasure, the merits of the various English 
writers in this delicate mode of composition are appre- 
ciated with much justice and discrimination. His ven- 
eration for Milton, however, has, if I may venture to 
oppose my judgment to his, carried him too far in 
praise of his sonnets. Those to the Nightingale and to 
Mr. Lawrence are, I think, alone entitled to the praise 
of mediocrity, and if my memory fail me not, my opinion 
is sanctioned by the testimony of our late illustrious 
biographer of the poets. 

The sonnets of Drummond are characterized as ex- 
quisite. It is somewhat strange, if this description be 
just, that they should so long have sunk into utter ob- 
livion, to be revived only by a species of black-letter ma- 
nia, which prevailed during the latter half of the eigh- 
teenth century, and of which some vestiges yet remain ; 
the more especially as Dr. Johnson, to whom they could 
scarcely be unknown, tells us, that " The fabric of the 
sonnet has never succeeded in our language." For my 
own part, I can say nothing of them. I have long 
sought a copy of Drummond's works, and I have sought 
it in vain ; but from specimens which I have casually 
met with, in quotations, I am forcibly inclined to favor 
the idea, that, as they possess natural and pathetic sen- 
timents, clothed in tolerably harmonious language, 
they are entitled to the praise which has been so lib- 
erally bestowed on them. 

Sir Philip Sidney's ; ' Astrophel and Stella" consists 
of a number of sonnets, which have been unaccounta- 
bly passed over by Dr. Drake and all our other critics 
who have written on this subject. Many of them are 
eminently beautiful. The works of this neglected poet 
may occupy a future number of my lucubrations. 

Excepting these two poets, I believe there is scarcely 
a writer who has arrived at any degree of excellence in 
the sonnet, until of late years, when our vernacula 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 445 

bards have raised it to a degree of eminence and dig- 
nity, among the various kinds of poetical composition, 
which seems almost incompatible with its very circum- 
scribed limits. 

Passing over the classical compositions of Wartcn, 
which are formed more on the model of the Greek epi- 
gram, or epitaph, than the Italian sonnet, Mr. Bowles 
and Charlotte Smith are the first modern writers who 
have met with distinguished success in the sonnet. 
Those of the former, in particular, are standards of ex- 
cellence in this department. To much natural and ac- 
curate description, they unite a strain of the most ex- 
quisitely tender and delicate sentiment ; and with a ner- 
vous strength of diction and a wild freedom of versifi- 
cation, they combine an euphonious melcdy and conso- 
nant cadence unequalled in the English language. 
While they possess, however, the superior merit of an 
original style, they are not unfrequently deformed by 
instances of that ambitious singularity which is but too 
frequently its concomitant. Of these the introduction 
of rhymes long since obsolete is not the least stiiking. 
Though, in some cases, these revivals of antiquated 
phrase have a pleasing effect, yet they are oftentimes 
uncouth and repulsive. Mr. Bowles has almost always 
thrown aside the common rules of the sonnet ; his 
pieces have no more claim to that specific denomina- 
tion than that they are confined to fourteen lines. How 
far this deviation from established principle is justifia- 
ble may be disputed ; for, if, on the one hand, it be al- 
leged that the confinement to the stated repetition of 
rhymes, so distant and frequent, is a restraint which is 
not compensated by an adequate effect ; on the other, 
it must be conceded, that these little poems are no 
longer sonnets than while they conform to the rules of 
the sonnet, and that the .moment they forsake them 
they ought to resign the appellation. 

The name bears evident affinity to the Italian son- 
dire, " to resound" — " sing around,'" which originated 



446 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



in the Latin sonans— sounding, jingling, ringing: 
or, indeed, it may come immediately from the French 
sonner, to sound, or ring, in which language, it is ob- 
servable, we first meet with the word sonnette, where it 
signifies a a little bell, and sonnettier a maker of little 
bells; and this derivation affords a presumption, al- 
most amounting to certainty, that the conjecture before 
advanced, that the sonnet originated with the Proven- 
cals, is well founded. It is somewhat strange that these 
contending derivations have not been before observed, 
as they tend to settle a question which, however intrin- 
sically unimportant, is curious, and has been much 

agitated. 

But, wherever the name originated, it evidently 
bears relation only to the peculiarity of a set of chiming 
and jingiing terminations, and of course can no longer 
be applied with propriety where that peculiarity is not 
preserved. 

The single stanza of fourteen lines, properly varied 
in their correspondent closes, is, notwithstanding, so 
well adapted for the expression of any pathetic senti- 
ment, and is so pleasing and satisfactory to the ear, 
when once accustomed to it, that our poetry would suf- 
fer a material loss were it to be disused through a rigid 
adherence to mere propriety of name. At the same 
time, our language does not supply a sufficiency of sim- 
ilar terminations to rend er the strict observance of its 
rules at all easy or compatible with ease or elegance, 
The only question, therefore, is, whether the musical 
effect produced by the adherence to this difficult struc- 
ture of verse overbalance the restraint it imposes on the 
poet, and in case we decide in the negative, whether we 
ought to preserve the denomination of sonnet, when we 
utterly renounce the very peculiarities which procured 
it that cognomen. 

In the present enlightened age, I think it will not be 
disputed that mere jingle and sound ought invariably 
to be sacrificed to sentiment and expression. Musical 



HENkY KIRKE WHITE. 447 

effect is a very subordinate consideration ; it is the 
giiding to the cornices of a Vitruvian edifice ; the color- 
ing of a shaded design of Michael Angelo. in its place 
it adds to the effect of the whole, but when rendered a 
principal object of attention it is ridiculous and dis- 
gusting. Rhyme is no necessary adjunct of true poetry. 
Southey's '* Thalaba " is a fine poem, with no rhyme 
and very little measure or metre ; and the production 
which is reduced to mere prose by being deprived of its 
jingle, could never possess, in any state, the marks of 
inspiration. 

So far, therefore, I am of opinion that it is advisable 
to renounce the Italian fabric altogether. We have al- 
ready sufficient restrictions laid upon us by the metrical 
laws of our native tongue, and I do not see any reason, 
out of a blind regard for precedent, to tie ourselves to a 
difficult structure of verse, which probably originated 
with the Troubadours, or wandering bards of France 
and Normandy, or with a yet ruder race ; one which is 
not productive of any rational effect, and which only 
pleases the ear by frequent repetition, as men who have 
once had the greatest aversion to strong wines and spir- 
ituous liquors, are, by habit, at last brought to regard 
them as delicacies. 

In advancing this opinion, I am aware that I am 
opposing myself to the declared sentiments of many in- 
dividuals whom I greatly respect and admire. Miss 
Seward (and Miss Seward is in herself a host) has both 
theoretically and practically defended the Italian struc- 
ture. Mr. Capel Lofft has likewise favored the world 
with many sonnets, in which he shows his approval of 
the legitimate model by his adherence to its rules, and 
many of the beautiful poems of Mrs. Lofft, published in 
the " Monthly Mirror," are likewise successfully formed 
by those rules. Much, however, as I admire these wri- 
ters, and ample as is the credence I give to their critical 
discrimination, I cannot, on mature reflection, subscribe 
to their position of the expediency of adopting this 



448 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

structure in our poetry, and I attribute their success in 
it more to their individual powers, which would have 
surmounted much greater difficulties, than to the adap- 
tability of this foreign fabiic to our stubborn and in. 
tractable language. 

If the question, however, turn only on the propriety 
of giving a poem a name which must be acknowledged 
to be entirely inappropriate, and to which it can have 
no sort of claim, I must confess that it is manifestly in- 
defensible ; and we must then either pitch upon another 
appellation for our quatorzain, or banish it from our 
language : a measure which every lover of true poetry 
must sincerely lament. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— No. VI. 

"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air." 

Gray. 

Poetry is a blossom of very delicate growth ; it re. 
quires the maturing influence of vernal suns, and every 
encouragement of culture and attention, to bring it to 
its natural perfection. The pursuits of the mathema- 
tician or the mechanical genius, are such as require 
rather strength and insensibility of mind than that ex- 
quisite and finely wrought susceptibility, which invari- 
riably marks the temperament of the true poet ; and it 
is for this reason, that while men of science have, not 
unfrequently, arisen from the abodes of poverty and 
labor, very few legitimate children of the Muse have 
ever emerged from the shades of hereditary obscurity. 

It is painful to reflect how many a bard now lies, 
nameless and forgotten, in the narrow house, who, had 
he been born to competence and leisure, might have 
usurped the laurels from the most distinguished per- 
sonages in the temple of Fame. The very consciousness 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 449 

of merit itself of ten acts indirect opposition to a stimulus 
to exertion, by exciting that mournful indignation at 
supposititious neglect which urges a sullen concealment 
of talents, and drives its possessors to that misanthropic 
discontent which preys on the vitals, and soon produces 
untimely mortality. A sentiment like this has, no 
doubt, often actuated beings who attracted notice, 
perhaps, while they lived, only by their singularity, 
and who were forgotten almost ere their parent earth 
had closed over their heads — beings who lived but to 
mourn and to languish for what they were never des- 
tined to enjoy, and whose exalted endowments were 
buried with them in their graves, by the want of a little 
of that superfluity which serves to pamper the debased 
appetites of the enervated sons of luxury and sloth. 

The present age, however, has furnished us with two 
illustrious instances of poverty bursting through the 
cloud of surrounding impediments, into the full blaze of 
notoriety and eminence. I allude to the two Bloomfields 
— bards who may challenge a comparison with the most 
distinguished favorites of the Muse, and who both 
passed the day-spring of life in labor, indigence, and 
obscurity. 

The author of the "Farmer's Boy" hath already 
received the applause he justly deserved. It yet remains 
for the " Essay on War " to enjoy all the distinction it 
so richly merits, as well from its sterling worth, as from 
the circumstances of its author. Whether the present 
age will be inclined to do it full justice, may indeed be 
feared. Had Mr. Nathaniel Bloomfield made his ap- 
pearance in the horizon of letters prior to his brother, 
he would undoubtedly have been considered as a meteor 
of uncommon attraction ; the critics would have ad- 
mired, because it would have been the fashion to admire. 
But it is to be apprehended that our countrymen become 
inured to phenomena: — it is to be apprehended that 
the frivolity of the age cannot endure a repetition of 
the uncommon — that it will no longer be the rage to 

29 



45 o PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



patronize indigent merit — that the beau monde will 
therefore neglect, and that, by a necessary consequence, 
the critics will sneer ! 

Nevertheless, sooner or later, merit will meet with 
its reward ; and though the popularity of Mr. Bloom field 
ma" be delayed, he must, at one time or other, receive 
meed due to his deserts. Posterity will judge im- 
partially : and if bold and vivid images, and original 
conceptions, luminously displayed and judiciously ap- 
posed, have any claim to the regard of mankind, the 
name of Nathaniel Bloomfield will not be without its 
high and appropriate honors. 

Rousseau very truly observes, that with whatever 
talent a man may be born, the art of writing is not 
easily obtained. If this be applicable to men enjoying 
every advantage of scholastic initiation, how much 
more forcibly must it apply to the offspring of a poor 
village tailor, untaught, and destitute both of the 
means and the time necessary for the cultivation of the 
mind ! If the art of writing be of difficult attainment to 
those who make it the study of their lives, what must it 
be to him, who, perhaps for the first forty years of his 
life, never entertained a thought that anything he could 
write would be deemed worthy of the attention of the 
public ! — whose only time for rumination was such as a 
sedentary and sickly employment would allow ; on the 
tailor's board, surrounded with men, perhaps, of de- 
praved and rude habits, and impure conversation. 

And yet, that Mr. N. Bloomfield's poems display 
acuteness of remark and delicacy of sentiment, combined 
with much strength and considerable selection of diction, 
few will deny. The "Paean to Gunpowder'' would 
alone prove both his power of language, and the fertility 
of his imagination ; and the following extract presents 
him to us in the still higher character of -a bold and vivid 
painter. Describing the field after a battle, he says — 

" Now here and there, about the horrid field, 
Striding across the dyiug and the dead, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 451 



Stalks up a man, by strength superior, 
Or skill and prowess in the arduous tight, 
Preserved alive : fainting he looks around ; 
Fearing pursuit— not caring to pursue, 
The supplicating voice of bitterest moans, 
Contortions of excruciating pain, 
The shriek of torture, and the groan of death, 
Surround him ; and as Night her mantle spreads, 
To veil the horrors of the mourning field, 
With cautious step shaping his devious way, 
He seeks a covert where to hide and rest : 
At every leaf that rustles in the breeze 
Starting, he grasps his sword ; and every nerve 
Is ready strain'd, for combat or for flight." 

Jt\ 12, Essay on War. 

If. Mr. Bloomfield had written nothing besides the 
" Elegy on the Enclosure of Honington Green," he 
would have had a right to be considered as a poet of no 
mean excellence. The heart which can read passages 
like the following without a sympathetic emotion must 
be dead to every feeling of sensibility. 

STANZA VI. 

" The proud city's gay wealthy train, 

Who naught but refinement adore, 
May wonder to hear me complain 

That Honington Green is no more ; 
But if to the church you e'er went, 

If you knew what the village has been, 
You will sympathize while I lament 

The enclosure of Honington Green. 

VII. 

" That no more upon Honington Green 

Dwells the matron whom most I revere, 
If by pert observation unseen, 

I e'en now could indulge a fond tear. 
Ere her bright morn of life was o'ercast, 

When my senses first woke to the scene, 
Some short happy hours she had past 

On the margin of Honington Green. 

VIII. 

" Her parents with plenty were blest, 



And numerous her children, and young. 
Youth's blossoms her cheek yet possest, 
And melody woke when she sung : 



1- 



45 2 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

A widow so youthful to leave 
(Early closed the blest days he had seen), 

My father wa^ laid in his grave, 
In the church-yard ou Honington Green. 



XXI. 

" Dear to me was the wild thorny hill, 

And dear the brown heath's sober scene 
And youth shall find happiness still, 
Though he rove not on common or green. 

# * * # 

XXII. 

•' So happily flexile man's make, 

So pliantly docile his mind, 
Surrounding impressions we take, 

And bliss in each circumstance fh.d. 
The youths of a more polished age 

Shall not wish these rude commons to see ; 
To the bird that's inured to the cage, 

It would not be bliss to be free." 

There is a sweet and tender melancholy pervades 
the elegiac ballad efforts of Mr. Bloomfield, which has 
the most indescribable effects on the heart. Were the 
versification a little more polished, in some instances 
they would be read with unmixt delight. It is to be 
hoped that he will cultivate this engaging species of 
composition, and (if I may venture to throw out the 
hint) if judgment may be formed from the poems he 
has published, he would excel in sacred poetry. Most 
heartily do I recommend the lyre of David to this en- 
gaging bard. Divine topics have seldom been touched 
upon with success by our modern Muses ; they afford a 
field in which he would have few competitors, and it is 
a field worthy of his abilities. W» 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 453 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— No. VII.* 

If the situation of man, in the present life, be con- 
sidered in all its relations and dependencies, a striking 
inconsistency will be apparent to every cursory observer. 
We have sure warrant for believing that our abode here 
is to form a comparatively insignificant part of our ex- 
istence, and that on our conduct in this life will depend 
the happiness of the life to come ; yet our actions daily 
give the lie to this proposition, inasmuch as we com- 
monly act like men who have no thought but for the 
present scene, and to whom the grave is the boundary 
of anticipation. But this is not the only paradox which 
humanity furnishes to the eye of a thinking man. It is 
very generally the case, that we spend our whole lives 
in the pursuit of objects, which common experience in- 
forms us are not capable of conferring that pleasure and 
satisfaction which we expect from their enjoyment. 
Our views are uniformly directed to one point — happi- 
ness, in whatever garb it be clad, and under whatever 
figure shadowed, is the great aim of the busy multitudes 
whom we behold toiling through the vale of life in such 
an infinite diversity of occupation and disparity of 
views. But the misfortune is, that we seek for happi- 
ness where she is not to be found, and the cause of 
wonder, that the experience of ages should not have 
guarded us against so fatal and so universal an error. 

It would be an amusing speculation to consider the 
various points after which our fellow mortals are inces- 
santly straining, and in the possession of which they 
have placed that imaginary chief good, which we are 
all doomed to covet, but which, perhaps, none of us, in 

* My predecessor, the " Spectator," considering that the seventh part 
of our'time is set apart for religious purposes, devoted every seventh 
lucubration to matters connected with Christianity and the severer part 
of morals : I trust none of my readers will regret that, in this instance, 
I follow so good an example. 



454 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

this sublunary state, can attaiD. At present, however, 
we are led to considerations of a more important nature. 
We turn from the inconsistencies observable in the 
prosecution of our subordinate pursuits, from the par- 
tial follies of individuals, to the general delusion which 
seems to envelop the whole human race — the delusion 
under whose influence they lose sight of the chief end of 
their being — and cut down the sphere of their hopes 
and enjoyments to a few rolling years, and that too in 
a scene where they know there is neither perfect fruition 
nor permanent delight. 

The faculty of contemplating mankind in the abstract, 
apart from those prepossessions which, both by nature 
and the power of habitual associations, would intervene 
to cloud our view, is only to be obtained by a life of 
virtue and constant meditation, by temperance, and 
purity of thought. "Whenever it is attained, it must 
greatly tend to correct our motives, to simplify our de- 
sires, and to excite a spirit of contentment and pious 
resignation. We then, at length, are enabled to con- 
template our being in all its bearings and in its full ex- 
tent, and the result is, that superiority to common views 
and indifference to the things of this life which should 
be the fruit of all true philosophy, and which, therefore, 
are the more peculiar fruits of that system of philosophy 
which is called the Christian. 

To a mind thus eublimed, the great mass of mankind 
will appear like men led astray by the workings of wild 
and distempered imaginations — visionaries who are 
wandering after the phantoms of their own teeming 
brains, and their anxious solicitude for mere matters of 
worldly accommodation and ease will seem more like 
the effects of insanity than of prudent foresight, as they 
are esteemed. To the awful importance of futurity he 
will observe them utterly insensible, and he will see, 
with astonishment, the few allotted years of human life 
wasted in providing abundance they will never enjoy, 
while the eternity they are placed here to prepare for 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 455 

scarcely employs a moment's consideration. And yet 
the mass of these poor wanderers in the ways of error 
have the light of truth shining on their very foreheads. 
They have the revelation of Almighty God himself, to 
declare to them the folly of worldly cares and the neces- 
sity for providing for a future state of existence. They 
know by the experience of every preceding generation, 
that a very small portion of joy is allowed to the poor 
sojourners in this vale of tears, and that too, embittered 
with much pain and fear ; and yet every one is willing 
to flatter himself that he shall fare better than his pre- 
decessor in the same path, and that happiness will 
smile on him which hath frowned on all his progenitors. 
Still, it would be wrong to deny the human race all 
claim to temporal felicity. There may be comparative, 
although very little positive happiness ; — whoever is 
more exempt from the cares of the world and the calam- 
ities incident to humanity — whoever enjoys more con- 
tentment of mind, and is more resigned to the dispensa- 
tions of Divine Providence — in a word, whoever possesses 
more of the true spirit of Christianity than his neighbors, 
is comparatively happy. But the number of these, it is 
to be feared, is very small. Were all men equally en- 
lightened by the illuminations of truth, as emanating 
from the spirit of Jehovah himself, they would all con- 
cur in the pursuit of virtuous ends by virtuous means — 
as there would be no vice, there would be but very lit- 
tle infelicity. Every pain would be met with fortitude, 
every affliction with resignation. We should then all 
look back to the past with complacency, and to the future 
with hope. Even this unstable state of being would 
have many exquisite enjoyments— the principal of which 
would be the anticipation of that approaching state of 
beatitude to which we might then look with confidence, 
through' the medium of that atonement of which we 
should be partakers, and our acceptance, by virtue of 
which, would be sealed by that purity of mind of which 
human nature is, of itself, incapable. But it is from 



456 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

the mistakes and miscalculations of mankind, to which 
their fallen natures are continually prone, that arises 
that flood of misery which overwhelms the whole race, 
and resounds wherever the footsteps of man have pen- 
etrated. It is the lamentable error of placing happiness 
in vicious indulgences, or thinking to pursue it by 
vicious means. It is the blind folly of sacrificing the 
welfare of the future to the opportunity of immediate 
guilty gratification which destroys the harmony of soci- 
ety, and poisons the peace not only of the immediate 
procreators of the errors, not only of the identical actors 
of the vices themselves, but of all those of their fellows 
who fall within the reach of their influence or example, 
or who are in any wise connected with them by the ties 
of blood. 

I would therefore exhort you earnestly — you who are 
yet unskilled in the ways of the world — to beware on 
what object you concentre your hopes. Pleasures may 
allure, pride or ambition may stimulate, but their fruits 
are hollow and deceitful, and they afford no sure, no 
solid satisfaction. You are placed on the earth in a 
state of probation ; your continuance here will be, at 
the longest, a very short period, and when you are 
called from hence you plunge into an eternity, the com- 
pletion of which will be in correspondence to your past 
life, unutterably happy or inconceivably miserable. 
Your fate will probably depend on your early pursuits. 
— it will be these which will give the turn to your char- 
acter and to your pleasures. I beseech you, therefore, 
with a meek and lowly spirit, to read the pages of that 
book, which the wisest and best of men have acknowl- 
edged to be the word of God. Y T ou will there find a rule 
of moral conduct, such as the world never had any idea 
of before its divulgation. If you covet earthly happi- 
ness, it is only to be found in the path you will find 
there laid down, and I can confidently promise you, in 
a life of simplicity and purity, a life passed in accord- 
ance with the divine word, such substantial bliss, such 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 457 

unruffled peace, as is no where else to be found. All 
other schemes of earthly pleasure are fleeting and unsat- 
isfactory. They all entail upon them repentance and 
bitterness of thought. This alone endureth forever — this 
alone embraces equally the present and the future — this 
alone can arm a man against every calamity — can alone 
shed the balm of peace over that scene of life when 
pleasures have lost their zest, and the mind can no 
longer look forward to the dark and mysterious future. 
Above all, beware of the ignis fatuus of false philosophy : 
that must be a very defective system of ethics which will 
not bear a man through the most trying stage of his 
existence, and I know of none that will do it but the 
Christian. W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— No. VIII. 

"QiTTiq Xoyouq yap itapaxataftrjxrp wq XaCcuv 
''Ezel -£v, adtxoq lartv, rj axparr^q aya>. 

Iffojg oi y Ettfh a/j.<pvrep(U xaxot. 

Anaxandrides apud Suidam. 

Much has been said of late on the subject of inscrip- 
tive writing, and that, in my opinion, to very little 
purpose. Dr. Drake, when treating on this topic is, for 
once, inconclusive ; but his essay does credit to his dis- 
cernment, however little it may honor him as a promul- 
gator of the laws of criticism : the exquisite specimens 
it contains prove that the doctor has a feeling of pro- 
priety and general excellence, although he may be un- 
happy in denning them. Boileau says, briefly, " Les 
inscriptions doivent ttre simples, courtes, etfamilieres.'" 
We have, however, many examples of this kind of writ- 
ing In our language, which, although they possess none 
of these qualities, are esteemed excellent. Akenside's 
classic imitations are not at all simple, nothing short, 
and the very reverse of familiar, yet who can deny that 



45 & PKOSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

they are beautiful, and in some instances appropriate? 
Southey's inscriptions are noble pieces ; — for the oppo- 
site qualities of tenderness and dignity, sweetness of 
imagery and terseness of moral, unrivalled; they are 
perhaps wanting in propriety, and (which is the crite- 
rion) produce a much better effect in a book than they 
would on a column or a cenotaph. There is a certain 
chaste and majestic gravity expected from the voice of 
tombs and monuments, which probably would displease 
in epitaphs never intended to be engraved, and inscrip- 
tions for obelisks which never existed. 

When a man visits the tomb of an illustrious char- 
acter, a spot remarkable for some memorable deed, or a 
scene connected by its natural sublimity with the higher 
feelings of the breast, he is in a mood only for the 
nervous, the concise, and the impressive ; and he will 
turn with disgust alike from the puerile conceits of the 
epigrammatist and the tedious prolixity of the herald. 
It is a nice thing to address the mind in the workings 
of generous enthusiasm. As words are not capable of 
exciting such an effervescence of the sublimer affections, 
so they can do little towards increasing it. Their office 
is rather to point these feelings to a beneficial purpose, 
and by some noble sentiment, or exalted moral, to im- 
part to the mind that pleasure which results from warm 
emotions when connected with the virtuous and the 
generous. 

In the composition of inscriptive pieces, great atten- 
tion must be paid to local and topical propriety. The 
occasion and the place must not only regulate the 
tenor, but even the style of an inscription : for what, in 
one case, would be proper and agreeable, in another 
would be impertinent and disgusting. But these rules 
may always be taken for granted, that an inscription 
should be unaffected and free from conceits ; that no. 
sentiment should be introduced of a trite or hacknied 
nature ; and that the design and the moral to be incul- 
cated should be of sufficient importance to merit the 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 459 

reader's attention, and insure his regard. Who would 
think of setting a stone up in the wilderness to tell the 
traveller what he knew before, or what, when he had 
learnt for the first time, was not worth the knowing ? 
It would be equally absurd to call aside his attention to 
a simile or an epigrammatic point. Wit on a monu- 
ment is like a jest from a judge, or a philosopher cut- 
ting capers. It is a severe mortification to meet with 
flippancy where we looked for solemnity, and meretri- 
cious elegance where the occasion led us to expect the 
unadorned majesty of truth. 

That branch of inscriptive writing which commemo- 
rates the virtues of departed worth, or points out the 
ashes of men who yet live in the admiration of their 
posterity is, of all others, the most interesting, and, if 
properly managed, the most useful. 

' It is not enough to proclaim to the observer that he 
is drawing near to the reliques of the deceased genius, — 
the occasion seems to provoke a few reflections. If these 
be natural, they will be in unison with the feelings of 
the reader, and, if they tend where they ought to tend, 
they will leave him better than they found him. But 
these reflections must not be too much prolonged. They 
must rather be hints than dissertations. It is sufficient 
to start the idea, and the imagination of the reader 
will pursue the train to much more advantage than the 
writer could do by words. 

Panegyric is seldom judicious in the epitaphs on pub' 
lie characters ; for if it be deserved it cannot need pub- 
lication, and if it be exaggerated it will only serve to 
excite ridicule. When employed in memorizing the 
retired virtues of domestic life, and qualities which, 
though they only served to cheer the little circle of 
privacy, _ still deserved, from their unfrequency, to 
triumph, at least for a while, over the power of the 
grave, it may be interesting and salutary in its effects. 
To this purpose, however, it is rarely employed. An 
epitaph book will seldom supply the exigencies of char- 



460 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



acter ; and men of talents are not always, even in these 
favored times, at hand to eternize the virtues of private 
life. 

The following epitaph, by Mr. Hayley, is inscribed 
on a monument to the memory of Cowper, in the church 
of East Dereham : 

" Ye, who with warmth the public triumph feel 
Of talents dignified by sacred zeal ; 
Here to devotion's bard devoutly just, 
Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust. 
England, exulting in his spotless fame, 
Ranks with her dearest tons his fav'riie name : 
Sense, Fancy, Wit, conspire not all to raise 
So clear a title to affection's praise ; 
His highest honors to the heart belong ; 
His virtues formed the magic of his song." 

" This epitaph," says a periodical critic,* "is simply 
elegant and appropriately just." I regard the sentence 
as peculiarly unfortunate, for the epitaph seems to me 
to be elegant without simplicity and just without pro- 
priety. No one will deny that it is correctly written, 
and that it is not destitute of grace ; but in what con- 
sists its simplicity I am at a loss to imagine. The initial 
address is labored and circumlocutory. There is some- 
thing artificial rather than otherwise in the personifica- 
tion of England, and her ranking the poet's name 
" with her dearest sons," instead of with those of her 
dearest sons, is like ranking poor John Doe with a 
proper bona fide son of Adam, in a writ of arrest. Sense, 
fancy, and wit, "raising a title," and that to "affec- 
tion's praise," is not very simple, and not over intel- 
ligible. Again the epitaph is just because it is strictly 
true ; but it is by no means, therefore, appropriate. 
Who that would turn aside to visit the ashes of Cowper, 
would need to be told that England ranks him with her 
favorite sons, and that sense, fancy, and wit were not his 
greatest honors, for that his virtues formed the magic 
of his song : or who, hearing this, would be the better 

* The "Monthly Reviewer." 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 461 

for the information ? Had Mr. Hayley been employed 
in the monumental praises of a private man, this might 
have been excusable, but speaking of such a man as 
Cowper it is idle. This epitaph is not appropriate, 
therefore, and we have shown that it is not remarkable 
for simplicity. Perhaps the respectable critics them- 
selves may not feel inclined to dispute this point very 
tenaciously. Epithets are very convenient little things 
for rounding olf a period ; and it will not be the first 
time that truth has been sacrificed to verbosity and 
antithesis. 

To measure lances with Haley may be esteemed pre- 
sumptuous ; but probably the following, although much 
inferior as a composition, would have had more effect 
than his polished and harmonious lines : — 

INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT TO THE MEMORY OP 

COWPER. 

Reader ! if with no vulgar sympathy 

Thou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth, 

Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallowed spot. 

Here Cowper rests. Although renown have made 

His name familiar to thine ear, this stone 

May tell thee that his virtues were above 

The common portion, — that the voice, now hush'd 

In death, was once serenely querulous 

With pity's tones, and in the ear of woe 

Spake music. Now forgetful at thy feet 

His tired head presses on its last long rest, 

Still tenant of the tomb ; — and on the cheek 

Once warm with animation's lambent flush, 

Sits the pale image of unmark'd decay. 

Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part ; 

And these sad garments of mortality 

Put off, we trust, that to a happier land 

He went a light and gladsome passenger. 

Sigh'st thou for honors, reader ? Call to mind 



462 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

That glory's voice is impotent to pierce 
The silence of the tomb ! but virtue blooms 
Even on the wrecks of life, and mounts the skies ! 
So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walk 
With Covvper on the pilgrimage of Christ. 

This inscription is faulty from its length, but if a 
painter cannot get the requisite effect at one stroke, he 
must do it by many. The laconic style of epitaphs is 
the most difficult to be managed of any, inasmuch as 
most is expected from it. A sentence standing alone on 
a tomb or a monument, is expected to contain some- 
thing particularly striking ; and when this expectation 
is disappointed, the reader feels like a man who, having 
been promised an excellent joke, is treated with a stale 
conceit or a vapid pun. The best specimen of this kind, 
which I am acquainted with, is that on a French gen- 
eral : 

" Sisie, Viator ; Heroem calcas ! " 
Stop traveller ; thou treadest on a hero ! 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— No. IX. 

" Scires e sanguine natos." 

Ovid. 

It is common for busy and active men to behold the 
occupations of the retired and contemplative person 
with contempt. They consider his speculations as idle 
and unproductive : as they participate in none of his 
feelings, they are strangers to his motives, his views, and 
his delights : they behold him elaborately employed on 
what they conceive forwards none of the interests 
of life, contributes to none of its gratifications, removes 
none of its inconveniences : they conclude, therefore, 
that he is led away by the delusions of futile philoso- 
phy, that he labors for no good, and lives to no end. 
Of the various frames of mind which they observe 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 463 

in him, no one seems to predominate more, and none 
appears to them more absurd than sadness, which seems, 
in some degree, to pervade all his views, and shed a 
solemn tinge over all his thoughts. Sadness, arising from 
no personal grief, and connected with no individual 
concern, they regard as moon-struck melancholy, the 
effect of a mind overcast with constitutional gloom, and 
diseased with habits of vain and fanciful speculation. 
lt We can share with the sorrows of the unfortunate," 
say they, " but this monastic spleen merits only our de- 
rision : it tends to no beneficial purpose, it benefits nei- 
ther its possessor nor society." Those who have thought 
a little more on this subject than the gay and busy 
crowd will draw conclusions of a different nature. That 
there is a sadness, springing from the noblest and purest 
sources, a sadness friendly to the human heart, and, by 
direct consequence, to human nature in general, is a 
truth which a little illustration will render tolerably 
clear, and which, when understood in its full force, may 
probably convert contempt and ridicule into respect. 

I set out then with the proposition, that the man 
who thinks deeply, especially if his reading be extensive, 
Avill, unless his heart be very cold and very light, be- 
come habituated to a pensive, or, with more propriety, 
a mournful cast of thought. This will arise from two 
more particular sources — from the view of human 
nature in general, as demonstrated by the experience 
both of the past and present time, and from the con- 
templation of individual instances of human depravity 
and of human suffering. The first of these is, indeed, 
the last in the order of time, for his general views of 
humanity are in a manner consequential, or resulting 
from the special, but I have inverted that order for the 
sake of perspicuity. 

Of those who have occasionally thought on these 
subjects, I may, with perfect assurance cf their reply, 
inquire what have been their sensations when they have, 
for a moment, attained a more enlarged and capacious 



464 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

notion of the state of man in all its bearings and depen- 
dencies ? They have found, and the profoundest phi- 
losophers have done no more, that they are enveloped 
in mystery, and that the mystery of man's situation is 
not without alarming and fearful circumstances. They 
have discovered that all they know of themselves is that 
they live, but that from whence they came, or whither 
they are going, is by Nature altogether hidden ; that 
impenetrable gloom surrounds them on every side, and 
that they even hold their morrow on the credit of to- 
day, when it is, in fact, buried in the vague and indis- 
tinct gulf of the ages to come ! These are reflections 
deeply interesting, and lead to others so awful, that 
many gladly shut their eyes on the giddy and unfath- 
omable depths which seem to stretch before them. The 
meditative man, however, endeavors to pursue them to 
the farthest stretch of the reasoning powers, and to en- 
large his conceptions of the mysteries of his own exist- 
ence, and the more he learns, and the deeper he pene- 
trates, the more cause does he find for being serious, and 
the more inducements to be continually thoughtful. 

If, again, we turn from the condition of moral ex- 
istence, considered in the abstract, to the qualities and 
characters of man, and his condition in a state of so- 
ciety, we see things perhaps equally strange and infi- 
nitely more affecting. In the economy of creation, we 
perceive nothing inconsistent with the power of an all- 
wise and all-merciful God. A perfect harmony runs 
through all the parts of the universe. Plato's syrens sing 
not only from the planetary octave, but through all the 
minutest divisions of the stupendous whole : order, 
beauty, and perfection, the traces of the great architect, 
glow through every particle of his work. At man, how- 
ever, we stop : there is one exception. The harmony 
of order ceases, and vice and misery disturb the beauti- 
ful consistency of creation, and bring us first acquaint- 
ed with positive evil. We behold men carried irresist- 
ibly away by corrupt principles and vicious inclina- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 465 



tions, indulging in propensities, destructive as well 
to themselves as to those around them : the stronger 
oppressing the weaker, and the bad persecuting the 
good ! we see the depraved in prosperity, the virtuous 
in adversity, the guilty unpunished, the undeserving 
overwhelmed with unprovoked misfortunes. From 
hence we are tempted to think, that He, whose arm 
holds the planets in their course, and directs the comets 
along their eccentric orbits, ceases to exercise his provi- 
dence over the affairs of mankind, and leaves them to 
be governed and directed by the impulses of a corrupt 
heart, or the blind workings of chance alone. Yet this 
is inconsistent both with the wisdom and goodness of 
the Deity. If God permit evil, he causes it : the differ- 
ence is casuistical. We are led, therefore, to conclude, 
that it was not always thus : that man was created in 
a far different and a far happier condition ; but that, 
by some means or other, he has forfeited the protection 
of his Maker. Here then is a mystery. The ancients, 
led by reasonings alone, perceived it with amazement, 
but did not solve the problem. They attempted some 
explanation of it by the lame fiction of a golden age and 
its cession, where, by a circular mode of reasoning, they 
attribute the introduction of vice to their gods having 
deserted the earth, and the desertion of the gods to the 
introduction of vice.* This, however, was the logic of 

* Kai tote Sr) 7rpo<j bX.vfj.irov oltto x^o^o? eiipvSetrj?, 
AevKoiarii' <j>apeeo~<Tt. Ka\v\pafj.ev<a XP oa ko.A.oi', 
A9olvolt<x>v /xera ${/Aoi' ltov, npo\nrovT avOpmnovs 
Atfiw? (cat Ne/itecrts - ra Se Aet^eTai a\yea \vSpa 
OvijToi? avOpitiTTOicrt., kclkov 8' ovic ecrererat dA/cij, 

Hesiod. Opera et Dies, lib. i., 1. 195 : 

" Victa jacet Pieta3 : et Virgo csede madentes, 
Ultima coelestum terras Astraea reliquit," 

Ovid. Metamor. 1., i. fab. 4. 

" Paulatim deinde ad Superos Astraea recessit, 
Hac comite atque du.se pariter fugere sorores." 

Juvenal, sat. vl., 1. 19. 



30 



466 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

the poets ; the philosophers disregarded the fable, but 
did not dispute the fact it was intended to account for. 
They often hint at human degeneracy, and some un- 
known curse hanging over our being, and even coming 
into the world along with us. Pliny, in the preface to 
his seventh book, has this remarkable passage : " The 
animal about to rule over the rest of created animals, 
lies weeping, bound hand and foot, making his first en- 
trance upon life with sharp pangs, and this, for no 
other crime than that he is bom man." Cicero, in a 
passage, for the preservation of which we are indebted 
to St. Augustine, gives a yet stronger idea of an existing 
degeneracy in human nature : " Man," says he, " comes 
into existence, not as from the hands of a mother, but 
of a step-dame nature, with a bodjr feeble, naked, and 
fragile, and a mind exposed to anxiety and care, abject 
in fear, unmeet for labor, prone to licentiousness, in 
which, however, there still dwell some sparks of the di- 
vine mind, though obscured, and, as it were, in ruins." 
And, in another place, he intimates it as a current 
opinion, that man comes into the world as into a state 
of punishment expiatory of crimes committed in some 
previous stage of existence, of which we now retain no 
recollection. 

From these proofs, and from daily observations and 
experience, there is every ground for concluding that 
man is in a state of misery and depravity quite incon- 
sistent with the happiness for which, by a benevolent 
God, he must have been created. We see glaring marks 
of this in our own times. Prejudice alone blinds us to 
the absurdity and the horror of those systematic mur- 
ders which go by the name of wars, where man falls on 
man, brother slaughters brother, where death, in every 
variety of horror, preys "on the finely fibred human 
frame" and where the cry of the widow and the or- 
phan rise up to heaven long after the thunder of the 
fight and the clang of arms have ceased, and the bones 
of sons, brothers, and husbands slain are grown white on 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 467 

the field. Customs like these vouch, with most miracu- 
lous organs, for the depravity of the human heart, and 
these are not the most mournful of those considerations 
which present themselves to the mind of the thinking 
man. 

Private life is equally fertile in calamitous perver- 
sion of reason and extreme accumulation of misery. 
On the one hand, we see a large proportion of men 
sedulously employed in the eduction of their own ruin, 
pursuing vice in all its varieties, and sacrificing the 
peace and happiness of the innocent and unoffending to 
their own brutal gratifications ; and on the other, pain, 
misfortune, and misery, overwhelming alike the good 
and the bad, the provident and the improvident. But 
too general a view would distract our attention : let the 
reader pardon me if I suddenly draw him away from 
the survey of the crowds of life to a few detached scenes. 
We will select a single picture at random. The charac- 
ter is common. 

Behold that beautiful female who is rallying a well- 
dressed young man with so much gayety and humor. 
Did you you ever see so lovely a countenance ? There 
is an expression of vivacity in her fine dark eye which 
captivates one ; and her smile, were it a little less bold, 
would be bewitching. How gay and careless she seems ! 
One would suppose she had a very light and happy 
heart. Alas ! how appearances deceive ! This gayety 
is all feigned. It is her business to please, and beneath , 
a fair and painted outside she conceals an inquiet and 
forlorn breast. When she was yet very young, an en- 
gaging but dissolute young man took advantage of her^ 
simplicity, and of the affection with which he had in- 
spired her, to betray her virtue. At first her infamy 
cost her many tears ; but habit wore away this remorse, 
leaving only a kind of indistinct regret, and, as she 
fondly loved her betrayer, she experienced, at times, a 
mingled pleasure in this abandoned situation. But this 
was soon over. Her lover, on pretence of a journey 



468 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



into the country, left her forever. She soon afterwards 
heard of his marriage, with an agony of grief which few 
can adequately conceive, and none describe. The calls 
of want, however, soon subdued the more distracting 
ebullitions of anguish. She had no choice left ; all the 
gates of virtue were shut upon her, and though she 
really abhorred the course, she was obliged to betake 
herseif to vice for support. Her next keeper possessed 
her person without her heart. She has since passed 
through several hands, and has found, by bitter experi- 
ence, that the vicious, on whose generosity she is thrown, 
are devoid of all feeling but that of self-gratification, 
and that even the wages of prostitution are reluctantly 
and grudgingly paid. She now looks on all men as 
sharpers. She smiles but to entangle and destroy, and 
while she simulates fondness, is intent only on the ex- 
torting of that, at best poor pittance, which her necessi- 
ties loudly demand. Thoughtless as she may seem, she 
is not without an idea of her forlorn and wretched 
situation, and she looks only to sudden death as her 
refuge, against that time when her charms shall cease to 
allure the eye of incontinence, when even the lowest 
haunts of infamy shall be shut against her, and, without 
a friend or a hope, she must sink under the pressure of 
want and disease. 

But we will now shift the scene a little, and select 
another object. Behold yon poor weary wretch, who, 
with a child wrapt in her arms, with difficulty drags 
along the road. The man with a knapsack, who is 
walking before her, is her husband, and is marching to 
join his regiment. He has been spending, at a dram- 
shop, in the town they have just left, the supply which 
the pale and weak appearance of his wife proclaims was 
necessary for her sustenance. He is now half drunk, 
and is venting the artificial spirits which intoxication ex- 
cites in the abuse of his weary help-mate behind him. 
She seems to listen to his reproaches in pacient silence. 
Her face will tell you more than many words, as with a 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 4°9 

wan and meaning look she surveys the little wretch 
who is asleep on her arm. The turbulent brutality of 
the man excites no attention : she is pondering on the 
future chance of life, and the probable lot of her heed- 
less little one. 

One other picture, and I have done. The man pac- 
ing with a slow step and languid aspect over yon prison 
court, was once a line dashing fellow, the admiration of 
the ladies and the envy of the men. He is the only rep- 
resentative of a once respectable family, and is brought 
to this situation by unlimited indulgence at that time 
when the check is most necessary. He began to figure 
in genteel life at an early age. His misjudging mother, 
to whose sole care he was left, thinking no alliance too 
good for her darling, cheerfully supplied his extrav- 
agance, under the idea that it would not last long, and 
that it would enable him to shine in those circles where 
she wished him to rise. But he soon found that habits 
of prodigality once well gained are never eradicated. 
His fortune, though genteel, was not adequate to such 
habits of expense. His unhappy parent lived to see 
him make a degrading alliance, and come in danger of 
a jail, and then died of a broken heart. His affairs 
soon wound themselves up. His debts were enormous, 
and he had nothing to pay them with. He has now 
been in that prison for many years, and since he is ex- 
cluded from the benefit of an insolvency act, he has 
made up his mind to the idea of ending his days there. 
His wife, whose beauty had decoyed him, since she 
found he could not support her, deserted him for those 
who could, leaving him without friend or companion, 
to pace, with measured steps, over the court of a country 
jail, and endeavor to beguile the lassitude of imprison- 
ment, by thinking on the days that are gone, or count- 
ing the squares in his grated window in every possible 
direction, backwards, forwards, and across, till he sighs 
to find the sum always the same, and that the more 
anxiously we strive to beguile the moments in their 
course the more sluggishly they travel. 



470 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



If these are accurate pictures of some of the varieties 
of human suffering, and if such pictures are common 
even to triteness, what conclusions must we draw as 
to the condition of man in general, and what must be 
the prevailing frame of mind of him who meditates 
much on these subjects, and who, unbracing the whole 
tissue of causes and effects, sees Misery invariably the 
offspring of Vice, and Vice existing in hostility to the 
intentions and wishes of Ofod ? Let the meditative man 
turn where he will he finds traces of the depraved state 
of Nature and her consequent misery. History presents 
him with little but murder, treachery, and crime of 
every description. Biography only strengthens the 
view, by concentrating it. The philosophers remind 
him of the existence of evil, by their lessons how to 
avoid or endure it ; and the very poets themselves af- 
ford him pleasure, not unconnected with regret, as 
either by contrast, exemplification, or deduction, they 
bring the world and its circumstances before his eyes. 

That such an one then is prone to sadness, who will 
wonder ? If such meditations are beneficial, who will 
blame them ? The discovery of evil naturally leads us 
to contribute our mite towards the alleviation of the 
wretchedness it introduces. While we lament vice, we 
learn to shun it ourselves, and to endeavor, if possible, 
to arrest its progress in those around us ; and in the 
course of these high and lofty speculations, we are in- 
sensibly led to think humbly of ourselves, and to lift up 
our thoughts to him who is alone the fountain of all 
perfection and the source of all good. 

W. 



HENRY KIR KE WHITE. 471 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— No. X. . 

" La rime est une esclave, et ne doit qu'obeil•. ,, 

Boiltau, V Art Poetique. 

Experiments in versification have not often been 
successful. Sir Philip Sydney, with all his genius, great 
it undoubtedly was, could not impart grace to his hex- 
ameters or fluency to his sapphics. Spenser's stanza 
was new, but his verse was familiar to the ear ; and 
though his rhymes were frequent even to satiety, he 
seems to have avoided the awkwardness of novelty, and 
the difficulty of unpractised metres. Donne had not 
music enough to render his broken rhyming couplets 
sufferable, and neither his wit nor his pointed satire 
were sufficient to rescue him from that neglect which 
his uncouth and rugged versification speedily superin- 
duced. 

In our times, Mr. Southey has given grace and mel- 
ody to some of the Latin and Greek measures, and Mr. 
Bowles has written rhyming heroics, wherein the sense 
is transmitted from couplet to couplet, and the pauses 
are varied with all the freedom of blank verse, without 
exciting any sensation of ruggedness, or offending the 
nicest ear. But these are minor efforts ; the former of 
these exquisite poets has taken a yet wider range, and 
in his " Thalaba, the Destroyer," has spurned at all the 
received laws of metre, and framed a fabric of verse 
altogether his own. 

An innovation, so bold as that of Mr. Southey, was 
sure to meet with disapprobation and ridicule. The 
world naturally looks with suspicion on systems 
which contradict established principles, and refuse to 
quadrate with habits, which, as they have been used 
to, men are apt to think cannot be improved upon. 
The opposition which has been made to the metre of 
"Thalaba," is, therefore, not so much to be imputed to 
its want of harmony as to the operation of existing 



1 



47 2 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

prejudices: and it is fair to conclude, that, as these 
prejudices are softened by usages, and the strangeness 
of novelty wears off, the peculiar features of this lyrical 
frame of verse will be more candidly appreciated, and 
its merits more unreservedly acknowledged. 

Whoever is conversant with the writings of this 
author, will have observed and admired that greatness 
of mind, and comprehension of intellect, by which he is 
enabled, on all occasions, to throw off the shackles of 
habit and prepossession. Southey never treads in the 
beaten track ; his thoughts, while they are those of 
nature, carry that cast of originality which is the stamp 
and testimony of geniu. . He views things through a 
peculiar phasis, and while he has the feelings of a man, 
they are those of a man almost abstracted from mortal- 
ity, and reflecting on, and painting the scenes of life, 
as if he were a mere spectator, uninfluenced by his own 
connexion with the objects he surveys. To this faculty 
of bold discrimination I attribute many of Mr. Southey's 
peculiarities as a poet. He never seems to inquire how 
other men would treat a subject, or what may happen 
to be the usage of the times ; but filled with that strong 
sense of fitness, which is the result of bold and un- 
shackled thought, he fearlessly pursues that course which 
his own sense and propriety points out. 

It is very evident to me, and, I should conceive, to 
all who consider the subject attentively, that the struc- 
ture of verse, which Mr. Southey has promulgated in 
his "Thalaba," was neither adopted rashly, nor from 
any vain emulation of originality. As the poet himself 
happily observes, " It is the arabesque ornament of an 
Arabian tale" No one would wish to see the "Joan 
of Arc" in such a garb; but the wild freedom of the 
versification of "Thalaba" accords well with the 
romantic wildness of the story ; and I do not hesitate to 
say, that, had any other known measure been adopted, 
the poem would have been deprived of half its beauty 
and all its propriety. In blank verse it would have 







HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 473 

been absurd ; in rhyme insipid. The lyrical manner is 
admirably adapted to the sudden transitions and rapid 
connections of an Arabian tale, while its variety precludes 
tsedium, and its full, because unshackled, cadence sat- 
isfies the ear with legitimate harmony. At first, indeed, 
the verses may appear uncouth, because it is new 
to the ear ; but I defy any man who has any feeling 
of melody, to peruse the whole poem without paying 
tribute to the sweetness of its flow and the gracefulness 
of its modulations. 

In judging of this extraordinary poem, we should 
consider it as a genuine lyric production, — we should 
conceive it as recited to the harp, in times when such 
relations carried nothing incredible with them. Car- 
rying this idea along with us, the admirable art of the 
poet will strike us with tenfold conviction ; the abrupt 
sublimity of his transitions, the sublime simplicity of 
his manner, and the delicate touches by which he con- 
nects the various parts of his narrative, will then be 
more strongly observable, and we shall, in particular, 
remark the uncommon felicity with which he has adapted 
his versification, and in the midst of the wildest irreg- 
ularity, left nothing to shock the ear, or offend the 
judgment. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— NO. XI. 

THE PROGRESS OP KNOWLEDGE. 

Few histories would be more worthy of attention 
than that of the progress of knowledge from its first 
dawn to the time of its first meridian splendor, among 
the ancient Greeks. Unfortunately, however, the pre- 
cautions which, in this early period, were almost gen- 
erally taken to confine all knowledge to a particular 
branch of men ; and when the Greeks began to contend 



474 FROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

for the palui among learned nations, their backward- 
ness to acknowledge the sources from whence they de- 
rived the first principles of their philosophy, have served 
to wrap this interesting subject in almost impenetrable 
obscurity. Few vestiges, except the Egyptian hieroglyph- 
ics, now remain of the learning of the more ancient 
world. Of the two millions of verses said to have been 
written by the Chaldean Zoroaster,* we have no relics, 
and the oracles which go under his name are pretty 
generally acknowledged to be spurious. 

The Greeks unquestionably deri ved their philosophy 
from the Egyptians and Chaldeans. Both Pythagoras 
and Plato had visited those countries for the advantage 
of learning ; and if we may credit the received accounts 
cf the former of these illustrious sages, he was regularly 
initiated in the schools of Egypt, during the period of 
twenty-two years that he resided in that country, and 
became the envy and admiration of the Egyptians them- 
selves. Of the Pythagorean doctrines we have some 
accounts remaining, and nothing is wanting to render 
the systems of Platonism complete and intelligible. In 
the dogmas of these philosophers, therefore, we may be 
able to trace the learning of these primitive nations, 
though our conclusions must be cautiously drawn, and 
much must be allowed to the active intelligence of two 
Greeks. Ovid's short summary of the philosophy of 
Pythagoras deserves attention : — 

" Isque, licet coeli regione remotos 

Mente Deos adiit : et, quse natura negabat 
Visibus humanis, oculis ea pectoris hausit. 
Cumque animo et vigili perspexerat omnia cura ; 
In medium discenda dabat : ccetumque silentum 
Dictaque mirantum, magni primordia miuidi 
Et rerum causas et quid natura docebat, 
Quid Deus : unde nives : qua? fulminis esset origo 
Jupiter, an venti, discussa nube, tonarent, 
Quid quateret terras : qua sidera iege mearent 
Et quodcumque latet." 

* Pliny. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 475 



If we are to oredit this account, and it is corrobo- 
rated by many other testimonies, Pythagoras searched 
deeply into natural causes. Some have imagined, and 
strongly asserted, that his central fire was figurative 
of the sun, and, therefore, that he had an idea of its 
real situation ; but this opinion, so generally adopted, 
may be combated with some degree of reason, i should 
be inclined to think Pythagoras gained his idea of 
the great, central, vivifying, and creative fire from the 
Chaldeans, and that, therefore, it was the representative 
not of the sun, but of the Deity. Zoroaster taught that 
there was one God, Eternal, the Father of the Universe : 
he assimilated the Deity to light, and applied to him the 
names of Light, Brains, and Splendor. The Magi, cor- 
rupting this representation of the Supreme B 3ing, and 
taking literally what was meant as an allegory or sym- 
bol, supposed that God was this central fire, the source 
of heat, light, and life, residing in the centre of the 
universe; and from hence they introduced among the 
Chaldeans the worship of fire. That Pythagoras was 
tainted with this superstition is well known. On the 
testimony of Plutarsh, his disciplas held, that in the 
midst of the world is fire, or in the midst of the four 
elements is the fiery globe of Unity, or Monad— the pro- 
creative, nutritive, and excitative power. The sacred 
fire of Vesta, among the Greeks and Latins, was a re- 
main of this doctrine. 

As the limits of this paper will not allow me to take 
in all the branches of this subject, I shall confine my 
attention to the opinions held by these early nations of 
the nature of the Godhead. 

Amidst the corruptions introduced by the Magi, we 
may discern, with tolerable certainty, that Zoroaster 
taught the worship of the one true God : and Thales, 
Pythagoras, and Plato, who had all been instituted in 
the mysteries of the Chaldeans, taught the same doc- 
trine. These philosophers likewise asserted the om- 
nipotence and eternity of God ; and that he was the 



"""" 1 ' ' ■ ■! J — C ii in m i l ium - nrr n ri iirinii m i ii i «i_ i l 



476 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



creator of all things, and the governor of the universe. 
Plato decisively supported the doctrines of future 
rewards and punishments ; -and Pythagoras, struck, 
with the idea of the omnipresence of the Deity, denned 
him as animus per universas mundi partes omnemque 
naturam commeans atque diffusus, ex quo omnia quoz 
nascuntur animalia vitam capiunt* — an intelligence 
moving upon, and diffused over all the parts of the 
universe and all nature, from which all animals derive 
their existence. As for the swarm of gods worshipped 
both in Egypt and Greece, it is evident they were only 
esteemed as inferior deities. In the time of St. Paul, 
there was a temple at Athens inscribed to the unknown 
God : and Hesiod makes them younger than the earth 
and heavea. 

E% o-pyrfi ooq Taia xat Oopavoq eupos ertxrov 
Ot v 5/ T(oy eyevovro fisot dcDrypsg saiov. 

Theog. 

If Pythagoras and the other philosophers who suc- 
ceeded him paid honor to these gods, they either did it 
through fear of encountering ancient prej udices, or they 
reconciled it by recurring to the Daemonology of their 
masters, the Chaldeans, who maintained the agency of 
good and bad daemons, who presided over different 
things, and were distinguished into the powers of light 
and darkness, heat and cold. It is remarkable, too, 
that amongst all these people, whether Egyptians or 
Chaldeans, Greeks or Romans, as well as every other 
nation under the sun, sacrifices were made to the gods, 
in order to render them propitious to their wishes, or to 
expiate their offences — a fact which proves that the con- 
viction of the interference of the Deity in human affairs 



♦Lactantius Div, Inst. lib. cap. 5, etiam' Minucius Felix. " Pythagorffl 
Deus est animus per universara rerum naturam commeans atque iutentus 
ex quo etiam animalium omnium vita capiatur." 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 477 



is universal : and what is much more important, that 
this custom is primitive, and derived from the first in- 
habitants of the world. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS.— No. XII. 

While the seat of empire was yet at Byzantium, and 
that city was the centre, not only of dominion, but of 
learning and politeness, a certain hermit had fixed his 
residence in a cell, on the banks of the Athyras, at the 
distance of about ten miles from the capital. The spot 
was retired, although so near the great city, and was 
protected, as well by woods and precipices as by the awful 
reverence with which, at that time, all ranks beheld the 
character of a recluse. Indeed the poor old man, who 
tenanted the little hollow, at the summit of a crag, be- 
neath which the Athyras rolls its impetuous torrent, was 
not famed for the severity of his penances or the strict- 
ness of his mortifications. That he was either studious 
or protracted his devotions to a late hour, was evident, 
for his lamp was often seen to stream through the trees 
which shaded his dwelling, when accident called any of 
the peasants from their beds at unseasonable hours. Be 
this as it may, no miracles were imputed to him ; the 
sick rarely came to petition for the benefit of his prayers, 
and, though some both loved him and had good reason 
for loving him, yet many undervalued him for the want 
of that very austerity which the old man seemed most 
desirous to avoid. 

It was evening, and the long shadows of the Thracian 
mountains were extending still farther and farther along 
the plains, when this old man was disturbed in his medi- 
tations by the approach of a stranger. " How far is it 
to Byzantium ? " was the question put by the traveller? 



47 8 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

" Not far to those who know the country," replied the 
hermit, " but a stranger would not easily find his way 
through the windings of these woods and the intricacies 
of the plains beyond them. Do you see that blue mist 
which stretches along the bounding line of the horizon 
as far as the trees will permit the eye to trace it ? That 
is the Propontis ; and higher up on the left, the city of 
Constantinople rears its proud head above the waters. 
But I would dissuade thee, stranger, from pursuing thy 
journey farther to-night. Thou mayst rest in the vil- 
lage, which is half-way down the hill ; or if thou wilt 
share my supper of roots, and put up with a bed of 
leaves, my cell is open to thee." " I thank thee, father," 
replied the youth, " I am weary with my journey, and 
will accept thy proffered hospitality." They ascended 
the rock together. The hermit's cell was the work of 
nature. It penetrated far into the rock, and in the in- 
nermost recess was a little chapel, furnished with a 
crucifix, and a human skull, the objects of the hermit's 
nightly and daily contemplation, for neither of them 
received his adoration. That corruption had not as yet 
crept into the Christian Church. The hermit now 
lighted up a fire of dried sticks (for the nights are very 
piercing in the regions about the Hellespont and the 
Bosphorus), and then proceeded to prepare their vege- 
table meal . While he was thus employed, his young guest 
surveyed, with surprise, the dwelling which he was to 
inhabit for the night. A cold rock-hole, on the bleak 
summit of one of the Thracian hills, seemed to him a 
comfortless choice for a weak and solitary old man. The 
rude materials of his scanty furniture still more sur- 
prised him. A table fixed to the ground, a wooden 
bench, an earthen lamp, a number of rolls of papyrus 
and vellum, and a heap of leaves in a corner, the her- 
mit's bed, were all his stock. "Is it possible," at length 
he exclaimed, " that you can tenant this comfortless cave 
with these scanty accommodations, through choice? 
Go with me, old man, to Constantinople, and receive 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 479 

from me those conveniences which befit your years." 
" And what art thou going to do at Constantinople, my 
young friend ? : ' said the hermit, "for thy dialect bespeaks 
thee a native of more southern regions. Am I mistaken, 
art thou not an Athenian?" "I am an Athenian," 
replied the youth, " by birth, bat I hope I am not an 
Athenian in vice. I have left my degenerate birth-place 
in quest of happiness. I have learned from my id aster, 
Speusippus, a genuine asserter of the much belied doc- 
trines of Epicurus, that as a future state is a mere 
phantom and vagary of the brain, it is the only true 
wisdom to enjoy life while we have it. But I have 
learned from him also, that virtue alone is true enjoy- 
ment. I am resolved therefore to enjoy life, and that 
too with virtue, as my companion and guide. My 
travels are begun with the design of discovering where I 
can best unite both objects } enjoyment the most ex- 
quisite, with virtue the most perfect. You perhaps may 
have reached the latter, my good father ; the former 
you have certainly missed. To-morrow I shall continue 
my search. At Constantinople I shall laugh and sing 
with the gay, meditate with the sober, drink deeply 
of every unpolluted pleasure, and taste all the fountains 
of wisdom and philosophy. I have heard much of the 
accomplishments of the women of Byzantium. With us 
females are mere household slaves; here, I am told, 
they have minds. I almost promise myself that I shall 
marry, and settle at Constantinople, where the loves 
and graces seem alone to reside, and where even the 
women have minds. My good fa. her, how the wind 
roars about this aerial nest of yours, and here you sit, 
during the long cold nights, all alone, cold and cheer- 
less, when Constantinople is just at your feet, with all 
its joys, its comforts, and its elegancies. I perceive that 
the philosophers of our sect, who succeeded Epicurus, 
were right, when they taught that there might be virtue 
without enjoyment, and that virtue without enjoyment 
is not worth the having." The face of the youth 



480 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

kindled with animation as he spake these words, and 
he visibly enjoyed the consciousness of superior intel- 
ligence. The old man sighed, and was silent. As they 
a-e their frugal supper, both parties seemed involved in 
deep thought. The young traveller was dreaming of 
the Byzantine women : his host seemed occupied with 
•far different meditations. " So you are travelling to 
Constantinople in search of happiness ? " at length ex- 
claimed the hermit, " I, too, have been a suitor of that 
divinity, and it may be of use to you to hear how I have 
fared. The history of my life will serve to fill up the 
interval before we retire to rest, and my experience 
may not prove altogether useless to one who is about to 
go the same journey which I have finished. 

li These scanty hairs of mine were not always gray, 
nor these limbs decrepit : I was once like thee, young, 
fresh, and vigorous, full of delightful dreams and gay 
anticipations. Life seemed a garden of sweets, a path 
of roses ; and I thought I had but to choose in what 
way I would be happy. I will pass over the incidents 
of my boyhood, and come to my maturer years. I had 
scarcely seen twenty summers when I formed one of 
those extravagant and ardent attachments of which 
youth is so susceptible. It happened that, at that time, 
I bore arms under the emperor Theodosius in his expe- 
dition against the Groths, who had overrun a part of 
Thrace. In our return from a successful campaign we 
staid some time in the Greek cities which border on the 
Euxine. In one of these cities I became acquainted 
with a female, whose form was not more elegant than 
her mind was cultivated and her heart untainted. I 
had done her family some trivial services, and her grat- 
itude spoke too warmly to my intoxicated brain to 
leave any doubt on my mind that she loved me. The 
idea was too exquisitely pleasing to be soon dismissed. 
I sought every occasion of being with her. Her mild 
persuasive voice seemed like the music of heaven to my 
ears, after the toils and roughness of a soldier's life. I 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 481 



had a friend too, whose converse, next to that of the 
dear object of my secret love, was most dear to me. 
He formed the third in all our meetings, and beyond 
the enjoyment of the society of these two I had not a 
wish. I had never yet spoken explicitly to my female 
friend, but I fondly hoped we understood each other. 
Why should I dwell on the subject? I was mistaken. 
My friend threw himself on my mercy. I found that he, 
not I, was the object of her affections. Young man, 
you may conceive, but I cannot describe what I felt, as 
I joined their hands. The stroke was severe, and, for a 
time, unfitted me for the duties of my station. I suf 
fered the army to leave the place without accompany- 
ing it : and thus lost the rewards of my past services, 
and forfeited the favor of my sovereign. This was 
another source of anxiety arid regret to me, as my 
mind recovered its wonted tone. But the mind of 
youth, however deeply it may feel for a while, event- 
ually rises up from dejection, and regains its wonted 
elasticity. That vigor by which the spirit recovers 
itself from the depths of useless regret, and enters upon 
new prospects with its accustomed ardor, is only sub- 
dued by time. I now apply myself to the study of 
philosophy, under a Greek master, and all my ambition 
was directed towards letters. But ambition is not 
quite enough to fill a young man's heart. I still felt a 
void there, and sighed as I reflected on the happiness 
of my friend. At the time when I visited the object of 
my first love, a young Christian woman, her frequent 
companion, had sometimes taken my attention. She 
was an Ionian by birth, and had all the softness and 
pensive intelligence which her countrywomen are said 
to possess when unvitiated by the corruption so prev- 
alent in that delightful region. You are no stranger 
to the contempt with which the Greeks then treated, 
and do still, in some places, treat the Christians. This 
young woman bore that contempt with a calmness 
which surprised me. There were then but few converts 



482 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

to that religion in those parts, and its profession was 
therefore more exposed to ridicule and persecution from 
its strangeness. Notwithstanding her religion, I thought 
I could love this interesting and amiable female, and in 
spite of my former mistake, 1 had the vanity to imagine 
I was not indifferent to her. As our intimacy increased, 
I learned, to my astonishment, that she regarded me as 
one involved in ignorance and error, and that, although 
she felt an affection for me, yet she would never become 
my wife while I remained devoted to the religion of my 
ancestors. Piqued at this discovery, I received the 
books, which she now for the first time put into my 
hands, with pity and contempt. I expected to find 
them nothing but the repositories of a miserable and 
deluded superstition, more presuming than the mys- 
tical leaves of the Sibyls, or the obscure triads of Zoro- 
aster. How was I mistaken ! There was much which 
I could not at all comprehend ; but, in the midst of 
this darkness, the effect of my ignorance, I discerned a 
system of morality, so exalted, so exquisitely pure, and 
so far removed from all I would have conceived of the 
most perfect virtue, that all the philosophy of the Gre- 
cian world seemed worse than dross in the comparison. 
My former learning had only served to teach me that 
something was wanting to complete the systems of phi- 
losophers. Here that invisible link was supplied, and I 
could even then observe a harmony and consistency in 
the whole, which carried irresistible conviction to my 
mind. I will not enlarge on this subject. Christianity 
is not a mere set of opinions to be embraced by the 
understanding. It is the work of the heart as well as 
the head. Let it suffice to say, that, in time, I became 
a Christian and the husband of Sapphira. 
* * * * 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 483 



EEFLECTIONS. 



ON PRAYER. 

If there be any duty which our Lord Jesus Christ 
seems to have considered as more indispensably neces- 
sary towards the formation of a true Christian, it is that 
of prayer. He has taken every opportunity of impress- 
ing on our minds the absolute need in which we stand 
of the divine assistance, both to persist in the paths of 
righteousness and to fly from the allurements of a fas- 
cinating but dangerous life ; and he has directed us to 
the only means of obtaining that assistance in constant 
and habitual appeals to the throne of Grace. Prayer 
is certainly the foundation-stone of the superstructure of 
a religious life, for a man can neither arrive at true 
piety, nor persevere in its ways when attained, unless 
with sincere and continued fervency, and with the most 
unaffected anxiety, he implore Almighty God to grant 
him his perpetual grace, to guard and restrain him from 
all those derelictions of heart to which we are, by nature 
but too prone. I should think it an insult to the un- 
derstanding of a Christian to dwell on the necessity of 
prayer, and before we can harangue an infidel on its 
efficacy, we must convince him, not only that the being 
to whom we address ourselves really exists, but that he 
condescends to hear and to answer our humble suppli- 
cations. As these objects are foreign to my present pur- 
pose, I shall take my leave of the necessity of prayer, 



484 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 

as acknowledged by all to whom this paper is addressed, 
and shall be content to expatiate on the strong induce- 
ments which we have to lift up our souls to our Maker 
in the language of supplication and of praise. To depict 
the happiness which results to the man of true piety 
from the exercise of this duty, and, lastly, to warn man- 
kind, lest their fervency should carry them into the ex- 
treme of fanaticism, and their prayers, instead of being 
silent and unassuming expressions of gratitude to their 
Maker, and humble entreaties for his favoring grace, 
should degenerate into clamorous vociferations and in- 
solent gesticulations, utterly repugnant to the true 
spirit of prayer and to the language of a creature ad- 
dressing his Creator. 

There is such an exalted delight to a regenerate 
being in the act of prayer, and he anticipates with so 
much pleasure, amid the toils of business, and the 
crowds of the world, the moment when he shall be able 
to pour out his soul without interruption into the 
bosom of his Maker, that I am persuaded, that the 
degree of desire or repugnance which a man feels to the 
performance of this amiable duty is an infallible cri- 
terion of his acceptance with God. Let the unhappy 
child of dissipation — let the impure voluptuary boast of 
his short hours of exquisite enjoyment ; e^en in the de- 
gree of bliss they are infinitely inferior to the delight of 
which the righteous man participates in his privace de- 
votions, while in their opposite consequences they lead 
to a no less wide extreme than heaven and hell, a state 
of positive happiness and a state of positive misery. If 
there were no other inducement to prayer than the very 
gratification it imparts to the soul, it would deserve 10 
be regarded as the most important object of a Christian ; 
for nowhere else could he purchase so much calmness, 
so much resignation, and so much of that peace and 
repose of spirit, in which consists the chief happiness of 
this otherwise dark and stormy being. But to prayer, 
besides the inducement of momentary gratification, the 



• ■ ■ 

HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 485 

very self-love implanted in our bosoms would lead us to 
resort, as the chief good, for our Lord hath said, " Ask, 
and it shall be given to thee; knock, audit shall be 
opened ; " and not a supplication made in the true 
spirit of faith and humility but shall be answered ; not 
a request which is urged with unfeigned submission and 
lowliness of spirit but shall be granted, if it be consistent 
with our happiness either temporal or eternal. Of this 
happiness, however, the Lord God is the only judge ; 
but this we do know, that whether our requests be 
granted, or whether they be refused, all is working to- 
gether for our ultimate benefit. 

When I say, that such of our requests and solicita- 
tions as are urged in the true spirit of meekness, humil- 
ity, and submission, will indubitably be answered, I 
would wish to draw a line between supplications so 
urged, and those violent and vehement declamations, 
which, under the name of prayers, are sometimes heard 
to proceed from the lips of men professing to worship 
God in the spirit of meekness and truth. Surely I need 
not impress on any reasonable mind, how directly con- 
trary these inflamed and bombastic harangues are to 
every precept of Christianity, and every idea of the def- 
erence due from a poor worm, like man, to the Omnip- 
potent and all great God. Can we hesitate a moment, 
as to which is more acceptable in his sight — the diffident, 
the lowly, the retiring, and yet solemn and impressive 
form of worship of our excellent Church, and the wild 
and labored exclamations, the authoritative and dic- 
tatory clamors of men, who, forgetting the immense 
distance at which they stand from the awful Being 
whom they address boldly and with unblushing front, 
speak to their God as to an equal, and almost dare to 
prescribe to his infinite wisdom, the steps it shall pur- 
sue. How often has the silent yet eloquent eye of 
misery wrung from the reluctant hand of charity that 
relief which has been denied to the loud and importu- 
nate beggar ; and, is Heaven to be taken by storm ? Are 






486 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



we to wrest the Almighty from his purposes by vocifer- 
ation and importunity ? God forbid ! It is a fair and 
a reasonable, though a melancholy inference, that the 
Lord shuts his ears against prayers like these, and 
leaves the deluded supplicants to follow the impulse of 
their own headstrong passions, without a guide, and 
destitute of every ray of his pure and holy light. 

Those mock apostles, who thus disgrace the worship 
of the true God by their extravagance, are very fond of 
appearing to imitate the conduct of our Saviour during 
his mortal peregrination ; but how contrary were his 
habits to those of these deluded men ! Did he teach his 
disciples to insult the ear of Heaven with noise and 
clamour ? Were his precepts those of fanaticism and 
passion ? Did he inflame the minds of his hearers with 
vehement and declamatory harangues ? Did he pray 
with all this confidence — this arrogance — this assur- 
ance ? How different was his conduct ! He divested 
wisdom of all its pomp and parade, in order to suit it 
to the capacities of the meanest of his auditors. He 
spake to them in the lowly language of parable and 
similitude, and when he prayed, did he instruct his 
hearers to attend to him with a loud chorus of Aniens ? 
Did he (participating as he did in the Godhead)— did he 
assume the tone of sufficiency and the language of as- 
surance ? Far from it ! he prayed, and he instructed 
his disciples to pray, in lowliness and meekness of spirit ; 
he instructed them to approach the throne of Grace 
with fear and trembling, silently and with the deepest 
awe and veneration ; and he evinced by his condemna- 
tion of the prayer of the self-sufficient pharisee, opposed 
to that of the diffident publican, the light in which 
those were considered in the eyes of the Lord, who, 
setting the terrors of his Godhead at defiance, and boldly 
building on their won unworthiness, approached him 
with confidence and pride. * * * 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 48 7 

There is nothing so indispensably necessary towards 
the establishment of future earthly, as well as heavenly 
happiness, as early impressions of piety. For as relig- 
ion is the sole source of all human welfare and peace, 
so habits of religious reflection, in the spring of life, are 
the only means of arriving at a due sense of the impor- 
tance of divine concerns in age, except by the bitter and 
hazardous roads of repentance and remorse. There is 
not a more awful spectacle in nature than the death-bed 
of a late repentance. The groans of agony which at- 
tend the separation of the soul from the body 9 height- 
ened by the heart-piercing exclamation of mental dis- 
tress, the dreadful ebullitions of horror and remorse, 
intermingled with the half-fearful, but fervent depreca- 
tions of the divine wrath, and prayers for the divine 
mercy, joined to the pathetic implorings to the friends 
who stand weeping around the bed of the sinner to pray 
for him, and to take warning from his awful end, con- 
tribute to render this scene such an impressive and ter- 
rible memento of the state of those who have neglected 
their souls, as must bring to a due sense of his duty the 
most hardened of infidels. 

It is to ensure you, my young friends, as far as pre- 
cept can ensure you, from horrors like these in your 
last moments, that I write this little book, in the hopes, 
that through the blessing of the Divine Being, it may 
be useful in inducing you to reflect on the importance 
of early piety, and lead you into the cheerful perform- 
ance of your duties to God and to your own souls. In 
the pursuit of this plan, I shall, first, consider the bliss 
which results from a pious disposition, and the horrors 
of a wicked one. Secondly, the necessity of an early 
attention to the concerns of the soul towards the estab- 
lishment of permanent religion, and its consequent hap- 
piness ; and, thirdly, I shall point out, and contrast, 
the last moments of those who have acted in conformity, 
or in contradiction, to the rules here laid down. 

The contrast between the lives of the good and the 



488 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



wicked man affords such convincing arguments in sup- 
port of the excellence of religion, that even those infidels 
who have dared to assert their disbelief of the doctrine of 
revelation, have confessed, that in a political point of 
view, if in no other, it ought to be maintained. Com- 
pare the peaceful and collected course of the virtuous 
and pious man with the turbulent irregularity and 
violence of him who neglects his soul for the allure- 
ments of vice, and judge for yourselves of the policy of 
the conduct of each, even in this world. Whose pleas- 
ures are the most exquisite ? Whose delights the most 
lasting ? Whose state is the most enviable ? His, who 
barters his hopes of eternal welfare for a few fleeting mo- 
ments of brutal gratification, or his, who while he keeps 
a future state alone in his view, finds happiness in the 
conscientious performance of his duties, and the scrupu- 
lous fulfilment of the end of his sojourn here ? Believe 
me, my friends, there is no comparison between them. 
The joys of the infatuated mortal who sacrifices his soul 
to his sensualities are mixed with bitterness and anguish. 
The voice of conscience rises distinctly to his ear, amid 
the shouts of intemperance and the sallies of obstreper- 
ous mirth. In the hour of rejoicing she whispers her 
appalling monitions to him, and his heart sinks within 
him, and the smile of triumphant villany is converted 
into the ghastly grin of horror and hopelessness. But, 
oh ! in the languid intervals of dissipation, in the dead 
hour of the night, when all is solitude and silence, when 
the soul is driven to commune with itself, and the voice 
of remorse, whose whispers were before half drowned in 
the noise of riot, rise dreadfully distinct — what! — what 
are his emotions ! — Who can paint his agonies, his ex- 
ecrations, his despair ! Let that man lose again, in the 
vortex of fashion, and folly, and vice, the remembrance 
of his horrors ; let him smile, let him laugh and be 
merry : believe me, my dear readers, he is not happy, he 
is not careless, he is not the jovial being he appears to 
be. His heart is heavy within him ; he cannot stifle the 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 489 

reflections which assail him in the very moment of en- 
joyment ; but strip the painted veil from his bosom, lay 
aside the trappings of folly, and that man is miserable, 
and not only so, but he has purchased that misery at 
the expense of eternal torment. 

Let us oppose to this awful picture the life of the 
good man, of him who rises in the morning, with cheer- 
fulness, to praise his Creator for all the good he hath 
bestowed upon him, and to perform with studious ex- 
actness the duties of his station, and lays himself down 
on his pillow in the evening in the sweet consciousness 
of the applause of his own heart. Place this man on 
the stormy seas of misfortune and sorrow — press him 
with afflictive dispensations of Providence — snatch from 
his arms the object of his affections — separate him for- 
ever from all he loved and held dear on earth, and leave 
him isolated and an outcast in the world ; — he is calm 
— he is composed — he is grateful — he weeps, for human 
nature is weak, but he still preserves his composure and 
resignation — he still looks up to the Giver of all good 
with thankfulness and praise, and perseveres with calm- 
ness and fortitude in the paths of righteousness. His 
disappointments cannot overwhelm him, for his chief 
hopes were placed far, very far, beyond the reach of 
human vicissitude. "He hath chosen that good part 
which none can take away from him." 

Here they lies the great excellence of religion and 
piety ; they not only lead to eternal happiness, but to 
the happiness of this world ; they not only ensure ever- 
lasting bliss, but then are the sole means of arriving at 
that degree of felicity which this dark and stormy being 
is capable of, and are the sole supports in the hour of 
adversity and affliction. How infatuated then must 
that man be who can wilfully shut his eyes to his own 
welfare, and deviate from the paths of righteousness 
which lead to bliss. Even allowing him to entertain the 
erroneous notion that religion does not lead to happiness 
in this life, his conduct is incompatible with every idea 



490 PROSE COMPOSITIONS OF 



of a reasonable being. In the " Spectator " we find the 
following image, employed to induce a conviction of the 
magnitude of this truth : "Supposing the whole body 
of the earth were a great ball, or mass of the finest sand, 
and that a single grain, or particle of this sand, should 
be annihilated every thousand years ; supposiug then 
that you had it in your choice to be happy all the while 
this prodigious mass was consuming, by this slow method, 
till there was not a grain of it left, on condition that 
you were to be miserable ever after ; or supposing that 
you might be happy forever after, on condition you 
would be miserable till the whole mass of sand were 
thus annihilated, at the rate of one sand a thousand 
years ; which of these two cases would you make your 
choice ? " 

It must be confessed that in this case so many * * * 



The life of man is transient and unstable ; its fairest 
passages are but a lighter shade of evil, and yet those 
passages form but a disproportionate part of the pic- 
ture ! We all seek happiness, though with different de- 
grees of avidity, while the fickle object of our pursuits 
continually evades the grasp of those who are the 
most eager in the chase : and, perhaps, at last throws 
herself into the arms of those who had entirely lost sight 
of her, and who, when they are most blessed with her 
enjoyment, are least conscious that they possess her. 
Were the objects in which we placed the consummation 
of our wishes always virtuous, and the means employed 
to arrive at the bourn of our desires uniformly good, 
there can be little doubt that the aggregate of mankind 
would be as happy as is consistent with the state in 
which they live ; but, unfortunately, vicious men pur- 
sue vicious ends by vicious means, and by so doing not 
only ensure their own misery, but they overturn and 
destroy the fair designs of the wiser and the better of 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 49* 

their kind. Thus he who has no idea of a bliss beyond 
the gratification of his brutal appetites, involves in the 
crime of seduction the peace and the repose of a good 
and happy family, and an individual act of evil extends 
itself by a continued impulse over a large portion of 
society. It is thus that men of bad minds become the 
pests of the societies of which they happen to be mem- 
bers. It is thus that the virtuous among men pay 
the bitter penalty of the crimes and follies of their un- 
worthy fellows. 

Men who have passed their whole lives in the lap of 
luxury and enjoyment, have no idea of misery beyond 

that of which they happen to be the individual objects. 
* * * * 



"Rejnember Jacob AbbotVs sensible rule to give children something that 

they are growing up to, not away from, and keep down the 

stock of children's books to the very best." 



CLASSIC JUYENILES 



BY JACOB ABBOTT, 

"TJie Prince of Writers for the Young." 




" Jacob Abbott's books con- 
tain so much practical wisdom 
concerning the every-day life 
of children, and so many les- 
sons in honor, truthfulness, 
and courtesy, that they should 
not be left out of the libraries 
of boys and girls." — From 
"Books for the Young," conv- 
piled by C. M. Hetvins, Libra- 
rian of the Hartford Library 
Association. 




ABBOTT'S AMERICAN HISTORIES FOR 

Illustrated by Darley, Herrick, Chapin, and others. 



YOUTH. 

12mo . 



8 vols. 



.Uio.oo 



I. Aboriginal America. 
II. Discovery of America. 

III. The Southern Colonies. 

IV. The Northern Colonies. 

THE ROLLO BOOKS. 14 vols. 
Rollo Learning to Talk. 
Rollo Learning to Read. 
Rollo at Work. 
Rollo at Play. 
Rollo at School. 
Rollo's Vacation. 
Rollo's Experiments. 



V. Wars of the Colonies. 
VI. The Revolt of the Colonies. 
VII. The War of the Revolution. 
VIII. George Washington. 



Illustrated. 16mo 14.00 

Rollo's Museum. 
Rollo's Travels. 
Rollo's Correspondence. 
Rollo's Philosophy — Water. 
Rollo's Philosophy — Air. 
Rollo's Philosophy — Fire. 
Rollo's Philosophy — Sky. 



THE JONAS BOOKS. 

Jonas a Judge. 
Caleb in Town. 
Caleb in the Country. 



6 vols, Illustrated. 16mo 6.00 

Jonas's Stories. 

Jonas on a Farm in Summer. 

Jonas on a Farm in Winter. 



THE LUCY BOOKS. « vols. Illustrated. 16mo 6.00 



Lucy Among the Mountains. 
Lucy's Conversations. 
Lucy on the Sea Shore. 



Lucy at Study. 

Lucy at Play. 

Stories Told to Cousin Lucy. 



AUGUST STORIES. 4 vols. Illustrated. 16mo 5.00 

Schooner Mary Ann. 
Granville Valley. 

4 vols. Illustrated. 16mo* 5.00 



August and Elvie. 
Hunter and Tom. 



JUNO STORIES. 

Hubert. 

juno and Georgie. 



Juno on a Journey. 
Mary Osborne. 



Jacob Abbott's Classic Juveniles. 



" The republication by the house of Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. of thirty-four 
volumes of Jacob Abbott's Books for Children, is an event deserving more than* 
ordinary mention in a journal that aims to be a chronicle of educational progress 
in our country. For a long generation, now quite fifty years, these charming and 
thoroughly wholesome little volumes have been appearing, year by year, for the 
entertainment and instruction of thousands of children of all ages ; including a 
great many people who have found the heart of their childhood renewed, under 
gray hairs, as they glanced over the homely adventures of Rollo, or the straight- 
forward stories. of Jonas, and saw the old world of the New England of half a 
century ago once more around them. In 1834, Jacob Abbott, a young minister 
of Roxbury, Mass., wrote the first simple story of the series which, under the 
title of the ' Hollo Books,' afterwards grew to the three dozen handsome juve- 
niles now republished. Without striking features of any sort, with no glare of 
unusual brilliancy, and nothing sensational, they struck the keynote of a genuine 
American child's literature. Like his predecessor, Peter Parley (S. G. Goodrich), 
he dealt exclusively with American life as he found it in the country in the New 
England States. And this feature we regard one of the most valuable in these 
writings. They are to the country life of New England what the poetry of 
Crabbe was to the common rural life of his day. Were every other book sunk in 
the sea, it would be possible for the historian to reconstruct a complete picture 
of the" common life of the New England of fifty years ago from this series of 
juveniles. In reading the history of the American Revolution in this series, we 
are struck with the author's ability to tell a plain story and bring out the points 
most interesting to the young in natural relief." — Journal of Education. 

" We welcome, and we think the present juvenile generation will welcome, 
T. Y. Crowell & Co.'s republication of this series of juvenile classics. The ' Hollo ■ 
and the ' Lucy ' and ' Jonas ' Books are written with only the children within the . 
writer's horizon, as the children were first in the writer's heart. Some years ago 
the New York Xation called for a reprint of the ' Rollo Books,' and placed them 
among the best, if it did not declare them to be absolutely the best of all modern 
juveniles." — Christian Union. 

"After all, can any new books for children — do any — have quite the charm 
of these old favorites? Oh, there never were such books as these in their day ; 
and there are some Avise heads who maintain that there never have been their 
like since. The author's faculty for arresting attention by means of common 
t lungs and turning it to instructive uses, amounts almost, if not quite, to genius." 
— Literarji World. 

" No recent publication is likely to meet a more cordial reception among young 
people than the reprint of Jacob Abbott's works just issued by Messrs. T. Y. 
Crowell & Co. Good juvenile literature is one of the most urgent demands 
of the time. Delightfully refreshing as they were to a generation now, in a 
sense, beyond them, they have not yet become stale to the unvitiated mind of 
youth. The boy or girl of to-day will devour them with the same eagerness, the 
same healthy and unfailing relish with which they were originally received by 
his parents. The American History is equally admirable in its own way, and 
boys and girls desiring a simple, lucid, interesting recital of American History 
will look in vain for a book better suited to their need." — N. Y. School Jour 



Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., 13 Astor Place, New York. 



POPULAR POETS, 



Crowell's Favorite Illustrated Edition. 



WITH DESIGNS BY 



Taylor, Merrill, TVoodward, Schell, Gifford, Garrett, Haydex, 
and other emineut artists. 

Printed on fine Calender ?d Paper, bound in attractive style for 
Holiday Gifts. Sq. 8vo, Gilt Edge, $9.50 per vol. fall JVlor. Antique 
or Tree Calf, JiG.OO. 




Aurora Leigh. 

Browning (Mrs.). 

Browning (Robert). 

Burns. 

Byron. 

Dante. 

Favorite. 

Faust. 

Goldsmith. 

Lalla Rookh. 

Lady of the Lake. 



Lay of the Last 

Minstrel. 
Luctle. 
Marmion. 
Meredith (Owen). 
Milton. 
Moore. 
Scott. 
Swinburne. 
Tennyson. 



The illustrations for these volumes are deserving of especial mention, 
having been prepared at great expense, a large proportion of them 
engraved by Geo. T. Andrew- whose work on " The Cambridge Book of 
Poetry " adds so much to its value. 

The paper, printing, and binding are also first-class in all respects, and 
no effort has been spared to make this series attractive and popular. 

The price has also been fixed at a low rate, in order to insure the favor 
of the public ; and it is hoped that this line of Poets will prove adapted 
to the wants of those desiring attractive books at popular prices. 



Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., 13 Astor Place, N 1 



A most Meltable and Valuable Booh of Reference. 



A DICTIONARY 



OF 



QUOTATIONS FROM THE POETS. 

Based upon Bonn's Edition, with numerous additions from American authors. 

Carefully revised and corrected, -with Index of Authors and 

Chronological Data, and a Concordance Index 

to Every Passage in the Volume. 

Introductory Preface by R. H. Stoddard. 



Crown Svo, 768 pp., $2.50. Interleaved Edition, $3.50. 



Especial care has heen taken to insure accuracy of text, the copy having been 
compared with author's text before putting in type, and again verified by com- 
paring the proof-sheets with the original text, so that each quotation has been 
verified not only by the compiler, but also by an expert employed for this pur- 
pose. 

Extract from Introductory Preface. 

" I have examined this Dictionary of Poetical Quotations carefully, and, bearing 
in mind the multitude of difficulties which must have beset the making of it, 1 can 
honestly say that, in my opinion, they have been triumphed over by the maker. 
This Dictionary of Poetical Quotations ought to be the best that has yet. been 
compiled, partly because it is the latest, and partly because it covers more 
ground and embraces more poets than any other. I agree with Oldys in regard 
to the qualifications necessary in an editor of poetic anthologies, and that tlie.y 
are largely possessed by the reader-general for mankind who has digested what- 
ever is most exquisite in our poets into this Dictionary of Poetical Quotations." 

The Century, NEW York, June 20, 1883. ' H ' ST0DDARD - 

From the Editor's Preface. 

" The present work is the American version of the latest edition of Bonn's 
Dictionary of Poetical Quotations. It largely represents American authors, and 
embraces many additions from English writers. All the quotations have been 
carefully compared with the author's text, not one being included the accuracy 
of which has not been verified. Full references have been supplied in every in- 
stance. 

"The quotations from Shakespeare's Plays have been verified by Charles 
Knight's text, and those from his Poems, by Mrs. Horace Howard Furness'S 
Concordance to Shakespeare ; those from the Old Dramatists by Eoutledge's 
edition ; and those from other authors, by the best editions of their works. 

" Subjects have been grouped, and full cross-references have been made. 

" Every quotation has been consecutively numbered, and a Concordance Index 
added, giving the prominent words in each extract twice or more, so that every 
passage, can lie readily referred to. 

"The places, and dates of birth and death are given, with the authors' nan cs. 



A Dictionary of Quotations from the Poets. 

in an Index showing the quotations from each writer. In long poems the lines 
have been counted, and the extracts verified by a reference to the exact passage. 
" It is believed that by these methods, and by the great care observed in proof- 
reading, this volume will approve itself to the tastes and necessities of the ordi 
nary reader, as well as to all literary and studious persons, containing, as it does, 
so choice a representation of English verse." 



Notices of the Press. 

" This handsome volume of 770 pages seems to include about everything neces- 
sary for the use of the student or professional reader in the matter of poetioal 
quotation. Thousands of young people, during the closing years of their school- 
life, need such a dictionary of the poets as this, with carefully-selected passages 
under appropriate headings, a copious index of quotations, and such an invalu- 
able index of authors as the book contains. The present work appears to us to 
meet the requirements of the great mass of readers of poetry better than any 
that has fallen under our observation. — Journal of Education. 

"The system of indexing by numbering the passages, and referring to them by 
numbers in the Index of Authors and General Index is a very thorough piece of 
work." — Good Literature. 

"The highest ambition of the compiler in this kind of work should be accuracy, 
good judgment in the selection of quotations, and their arrangement , on all 
these points the compilation stands strong, and cannot fail to prove highly use- 
ful." — Independent. 

"Not only very comprehensive, but is also admirably indexed and arranged." 

— Christian Union. 

" Those who have need of poetical quotations will find nothing more completely 
adapted to their desires than this book. We know of none as good — L'ohivs 
edition has no index." — Christian Intelligenc&r. 

" The more competent the critic who examines it the heartier will be his favor- 
able verdict." — Congregationalist. 

" The commendation" of It. H. Stoddard, which is embodied as a preface, is a 
sufficient testimonial to its merits." — Boston Pilot. 

" For variety, fullness of illustration of each topic, scope, and value of the 
quotations, the work is superior to any other with which I am acquainted. It 
should find a place in every library." — Cyrus Northroi), Prof, of lthetoric and 
English Literature in Yale College. 

" It has been compiled with excellent judgment and evidently with great care, 
and is printed and indexed in a way to satisfy the most exacting. It is a useful 
and attractive book." —Prof. Edwin H. Griffin, Williams College, Mass. 

"It seems to be unusually full and accurate. I tested it on various critical 
passages, and found it always correct." — Prof. Win. Hand Browne, Johns Hop- 
kins University. 

" A work which will add materially to our stock of useful works of reference." 

— Wm. E. Foster, Librarian Prov. Public Library. 

" A vast improvement upon Bonn's original compendium." — E. C. Stedman. 

" Highly creditable to the compiler's taste, industry, and accuracy." —John G. 
Whittier. 

" Contains a vast amount of quotable verse, and appears to be faithfully in- 
dexed." — Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

"An exceptionally thorough and conscientious work, showing a catholicity of 
taste that adds greatly to its value. A careful search through the most familiar 
passages has revealed no errors, a fact that is extremely creditable." — Thos. 8. 
Collier. 

" The volume Avell deserves a place in every working library, and Avill be found 
useful by all readers and students. — Boston Journal. 

" A treasure-bouse of high thoughts, elegantly expressed. It will be found ex- 
ceedingly useful for reference. — Portland Transcript. 



Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., 13 Astor Place, New York. 



An Elegant Holiday Volume of Poetical Selections. 



the 



(kiMdp Boo^ of poefrjj and 0ong. 

Selected from English and American Authors. 

Collected and edited by CHARLOTTE FiSKE Bates, of Cambridge, 
compiler of " The Longfellow Birthday Book," 

" Seven Voices of Sympathy," etc. 



With a Steel Portrait of Long-fellow, 
and 16 full-page illustrations, from origi- 
nal designs by Church, Fredericks. Diel- 
mah, SchelL, Murphy, Giffbrd, Smillie, 
Harry Fenn, and others. Engraved by 
George T. Andrew. 

Over 900 pp. Eoyal 8vo, cloth, gilt edges, $5 
" " . " hf. morocco, gilt, 7 

" " " full morocco, gilt, 10 

In a work of this character great liter- 
ary taste and discrimination are required 
to successfully winnow the chaff from 
the wheat. For this task. Miss Bates 
has proved herself peculiarly .fitted, and 
has given much time and labor to gather 
in one volume such selections as are 
worthy of a place among the choicest 
poetry of the English language. 

The collection is especially full and 
complete in extracts from living Ameri- 
can authors, many of whom are represented in no other compilation : 
while care has been taken to include those also without which a work of 
this description would be incomplete. 

Especial care has also been taken to have the text accurate and free 
from typographical errors, the copy having been carefully revised by 
the compiler and competent proof-readers. The indexes, three in num- 
ber, are minute and complete in every respect, and leave nothing to be 
desired in this particular. The arrangement of the poems is on a plan 
wholly different from that commonly pur-sued: the authors being placed 
alphabetically, and all the extracts from each author will be found in one 
section instead of being scattered through the book under different head- 
ings. It is believed this feature will prove a great convenience to those 
who may use the work for reference. 

The illustrations have been designed by some of the best and most emi- 
nent artists in this country, expressly for this book, and are superior to 
anything ever before attempted in any similar work. The engraver has 
faithfully reproduced the drawings to the entire satisfaction of the artists, 
and the value of the book is greatly enhanced by these beautiful speci- 
mens of American art. 

The whole work has been faithfully performed, both in the matter of 
the preparation of the material and of mechanical execution, including 
the press vyork and the binding, all of which combine to give it that stand- 
ard character which it has been the aim of the publishers to* produce. 

For Sale hy all Booksellers. 

Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., 13 Astor Place, 1ST.Y. 



A Volume which fairly Rivals all others in the Field. 

The Cambridge Book 

Ob- 

POETRY AND SONG. 

An Elegant Volume of Poetical Selections, from English and 
American Authors. 

Collected and Edited by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES, compiler of the 
*' Longfellow Birthday Book," etc. 

With Steel Portrait of Longfellow, and 1G full-page Illustrations from original 
Designs by Church, Dielman, Fredericks, Fenn, Gifkokd, Murphy, 
&CHELL, Smillie, and others. Engraved by Geo. T. Andrew. Over 900 
pages royal 8vo. 

Cloth, Full Gilt $5.00 I Half Mor., Gilt Top .... $7,50 

Full Mor., Gilt 10.00 | Tree Calf, Gilt 12.00 



" Eminently useful as a book of reference for those who write and those who 
are making a special study of poetical literature." — Boston Transcript. 

"The editor has shown admirable literary taste and a wise discrimination in 
making the selections." —Journal of Education. 

" A collection that will earn for itself a recognized and almost special place, 
Miss Bates has done her work with notable taste and judgment." — Boston 
Pilot. 

" The most valuable Holiday Book that has yet come to hand. The editor has 
done her work with taste and judgment." —Boston Globe. 

" No finer artistic work has been done in Boston this year." — Independent. 

" A very valuable and very attractive volume." — Literary World. 

"Full and accurate indexes make this a complete as well as beautiful vol- 
ume." — N. Y. Observer. 

" The volume is attractive in its binding, and pretends to something more than 
attractiveness in its press-work." — Springfield Republican. 

" The work is a handsome specimen of book-making." — Christian Union. 

"The illustrations are particularly good for a work of this class." — Boston 
Advertiser. 

" The work, in its mechanical execution and illustrations, is one of the hand- 
somest we have seen." — Pub. Weekly. 

" We prefer this new collection to any heretofore made, as an ample, complete, 
and rich collection." — Interior. 

" Especially valuable for its liberal selection from the minor poets who do not 
figure in previous anthologies." — E. C. Stedman. 

" We have looked through the volume pretty carefully, and believe that it is one 
of the best collections of English poems to be found in the language." — Chicago 
N. W. Chris. Adv. 

" Miss Bates is known as the best compiler in the country. I shall give the 
volume an honorable place in my library." — John G. Whittier. 

" One of the most elegant and valuable holiday books for the coming season." 
— Ziou's Herald. 



THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO., PUBLISHERS, 

Agents Wanted. 13 Astor Place, New York. 



THE ONLY COMPLETE LINE OF POETS PUBLISHED IN 
THIS COUNTRY. 

CROWELL'S 

RED LINE POETS. 



59 Volumes. 12mo. Per Volume, $1.25. 




Gilt Edges, Red Like Borders, Illustrated, 
and Elegantly Bound in new and beautiful designs. 

The New Designs for the covers are especially 
attractive and in keeping with the superior quality of 
paper, presswork and binding, which combine to make 
this series so justly popular with the trade and the 
general public, whose demands during the past year 
have severely taxed our ability to supply promptly. 

We would call special attention to our new ALLI- 
GATOR LEATHER BINDINGS, which will prove 
an attractive feature, and are offered at very low 
rates. 

The following now comprise the list: — 



- f Aurora Leigh. 
♦Browning (Mrs.). 
♦Browning (Robert). 
♦Burns. 
♦Byron. 

Campbell. 

Chaucer. 

Coleridge. 

Cook (Eliza). 

Cowper. 

Crabbe. 

Dante. 

Dhyden. 
♦Eliot (George). 
♦Favorite Poems. 
♦Faust (Goethe's). 

Goethe's Poems. 
♦Goldsmith. 
♦Hem ax s. 

Herbert. 



Hood. 

Iliad. 

Irish Melodies. 
*Jean Ingelow. 

Keats. 

♦Lady of the Lake. 
♦Lalla Rookh. 
♦Lay of the Last Min- 
strel. 
♦Lucile. 

Macaulay. 

♦MARMION. 

♦Meredith (Owen). 
♦Milton. 

Mulock (Miss) 
♦Moore. 

Odyssey. 

OSSIAN. 

Pilgrim's Progress. 
Poetry of Flowers 



7 3 4.Z 



♦Poe (Edgar A.). 

Pope. 
♦Procter. 

*Red Letter Poems. 
^Kossetti (Dante G.). 

Sacred Poems. 
*schiller. 
♦Scott. 

♦Shakespeare. 
♦Shellev. 

Shipton (Anna). 

Spenser. 

Surf and Wave. 
♦Swinburne. 
♦Tennyson. 

Thomson. 

Tupper. 

Virgil. 

White (Kirke). 
♦Wordsworth. 



The above are also furnished with Plain Edges, not Illustrated, at $1.00 
per volume. 

Those marked with an asterisk (♦) furnished in Alligator Leather, at §3.00 
per volume. 

For Sale by all Booksellers. 

Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., 13 Astor Place, N. Y. 



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